


Magic Touch

by JessieBlackwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 007 if you squint, M/M, Massage, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg is physio to his local football team, and Mycroft gets the benefit.</p><p>OK, so due to a comment on this I am stating for the record that a professional masseur would not behave like Greg does toward Mycroft. They usually maintain a professional detatchment and they most certainly don't flirt, but... This is Mystrade, so expect flirting and more. If, however, you ever have the chance to get a full body massage, I heartily recommend it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Tense Moment

**Author's Note:**

> The Graphic Depictions of Violence box is ticked BUT it is more a case of graphic references to violence rather than depictions. You are warned anyway. It concerns a crime scene Greg attends.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of a violent murder involving children in this chapter.

“Goodnight, Sherlock, John. Get off home, you both look done for. God knows, I am. I can take your statements tomorrow.” Greg Lestrade shooed the Consulting Detective and his Blogger off for the night and turned back, idly watching the paramedics loading what was left of the perpetrator of a string of aggravated burglaries into the ambulance. Not for the first time he wondered at Sherlock’s tactics. The poor sod in the ambulance was begging them to keep him safe. If Greg hadn't known that the man was the guilty party then he might have summoned up some sympathy from somewhere. When he wanted to, Sherlock-bloody-Holmes acted like an avenging angel, despite his assertions to the contrary.

Turning back, Greg noted that the two men had been intercepted by the occupant of a sleek dark car. The tall figure had his back to Greg but he was unmistakable under the street lamp’s glare. The Freak’s brother, Mycroft _minor-position-in-the- British-Government-my-suit-cost-more-than-your-sad-little-semi_ Holmes. Greg sighed. The man spooked him a little; always impeccably dressed, economical in his words, chilly demeanour (people didn't call him the Ice Man behind his back for nothing), and usually able to put his point across with facial expression alone. When he did speak it was with a light-weight, cultured, more often than not tight-lipped, English accent. None of Sherlock’s silky jaguar-trapped-in-a-cello baritone. Didn’t help that the man was Greg’s type either, if he had a type. Dark auburn hair, angular features, seriously blue eyes, tall and quite nicely built under those suits; long and lean.

A good suit on a man was the equivalent of nice lingerie on a woman as far as Greg was concerned. There was something about the way a well-cut suit defined the body beneath; hinted at the hidden musculature, emphasised the shoulders, chest and legs, legs that in Holmes' case went on for miles. And that pale expanse of neck... _fuck, it’s like a bloody swan's, it goes on forever_...

“Sir?” Sally Donovan was standing there with a frown on her face, hands on hips, glaring at him. “SIR!”

“What, Sally? I’m standing right here,” Greg complained gruffly.

“And I just spoke to you twice and you ignored me. Looked like you were definitely elsewhere…”

“I was running through what happened tonight in my head, Sergeant. What did you want?” Sally huffed, annoyed, and proceeded to ask him something concerning the case. By the time he had answered to her satisfaction, when he turned back, Holmes and the car had gone. “Bugger,” he muttered. Holmes-watching wasn’t a pastime he found himself occupied in very often but when the opportunity presented, he allowed himself to indulge a little. In Greg’s opinion he felt the two men were worth watching. Slightly disappointed, he turned around to look for a lift back to the Yard. He had a feeling he didn’t want to share a car with Sally. She had irked him enough already.

Greg walked to the roadside and scanned the remaining police vehicles. As he stood there, a sleek black car pulled up across his path and the door opened. Mycroft Holmes peered out, a smile on his usually prim mouth. “Can I offer you a lift, Detective Inspector? The least I can do, considering your infinite patience with my little brother…”

The ride to the Yard was mostly silent. Mycroft obviously had little to say, although Greg wasn’t sure if a few sidelong looks weren’t being cast in his direction. He glanced quickly up, catching the man out. Grey blue eyes fixed on his and Greg smiled, disarmingly. “Another successful end to a case, thanks to your brother,” Greg offered.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied non-committally, although his gaze did not waver direction.

“So… Mycroft…” Greg was about to offer another comment but Mycroft’s scrutiny was a little...invasive. “The view to your liking, then?” The words were out of his mouth before his brain caught up. _Oh, way to go, Greg, subtle…not to mention dangerous (as in make-it-look-like-an-accident dangerous)_.

“I have always found this particular view to be gratifying, Inspector. That much has never changed.”

Interesting, but not actually reassuring, considering he was now staring out of the window of the car again. Silence reigned for a while as Greg processed that nugget of information. “This is...kind of you,” he said at last, tearing his eyes away and gazing out the window.

“Nonsense, merely a small remuneration. Trivial, I assure you.”

“Not trivial to me, just so you know. Thank you anyway.”

The car pulled smoothly into the kerb. “Here we are. I...would like the opportunity to remunerate you further, Inspector. Dinner, perhaps?”

Greg paused. “Why, thank you, that would be nice, but not tonight. I’ve got an appointment.”

“Ah. You couldn’t rearrange?”

“Sorry, no. I can’t leave the lads in the lurch like that.” Greg reached for the door handle. “We’re facing off Lincoln a week on Saturday.”

“Ah. Football. How... _thrilling_.” Only Mycroft could inflect an adjective to sound like its opposite. “A more convenient time then?” he suggested.

Greg managed a warm smile. “Of course, thanks. Look forward to it.” He got out and stood on the kerbside as the car pulled smoothly back into traffic. _Bloody Hell, Holmes, what was that all about?_ Greg tried, and failed, to deduce Mycroft’s motive in asking him out on a date. _Is it a date?_ He doubted it was simply payment for his Sherlock-wrangling skills. He shook himself and went back inside to finish up for the night and grab his kit.

“Evening, fellas. Who’s first?” Greg looked out from his side room at the clubhouse, eyes roaming over the collection of players in the locker room. “What, no takers? Everyone in tip top shape then?” He waved his hands in the air. “Phil, how about you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I think Dimmock might need assistance if last week’s performance was anything to go by...”

“Oi! Watch it, you wanker!” Dimmock threw a towel at him. Despite his sarcastic demeanour, however, Phil Anderson had rather surprisingly turned out to be a passably good goalkeeper.

Toby Gregson leaned on the doorframe and grinned. “Save it for the opposition, lads. We’ll thrash 'em a week on Saturday. Don’t forget we’re playing Lincoln.” That elicited a few groans and catcalls. 

“Andy? Let me check you over before you go out tonight,” Greg insisted. Davidson was reckless and brave but not invincible, despite being young enough to think so. He always managed to get himself banged up somehow during the course of a match. He was a recent transfer from South Wales and, despite being more of a rugby man, he was a fearless player of the beautiful game. Greg had been that young once. He had learned the hard way, picking up his fair share of injuries, some of which were coming back to haunt him. He was past playing much these days, although he could still kick a ball with the best of them. In his early fifties, his stamina was suffering now, but he still kept himself fit. Greg had always promised himself that if he went out with a cardiac arrest it wouldn’t be because he’d let himself go.

Davidson hopped up on the therapy bed and stretched out, allowing Greg to run practiced hands along his thigh and calf muscles. “You need to take care, Andy. Your left calf is a bit tight. Don’t take risks, eh? We need you for this season. Don’t want to let the side down, hm?”

The young man grinned as Greg set to massaging the tension out of the offending limb. “No problem, Dad…”

“Oi! Watch it, Sprout.”

The evening went well. Greg found himself to be somewhat superfluous as he stood there with his bag ready for emergencies. As club physio, he was responsible for getting injured players back out there as fast as possible or into an ambulance just as fast, depending on the circumstances. He could be applying an icepack to strained muscles or mopping up a bloody nose. Tonight though the players behaved themselves and nobody took any serious damage. Mildly surprised, although it was only a practice session, Greg found his thoughts drifting back to Mycroft’s words in the car. _So he found the view gratifying, did he?_ Holmeses as a species were nothing if not enigmatic, so Greg supposed he should treat the comment as a compliment.

When he got home, his phone beeped an incoming text. The number wasn’t recognised.

**Mr Holmes would like to invite you to dinner on Friday evening, 7 for 7.30? A car will be sent to pick you up. Smart casual.**  
**Anthea Mallory, PA to Mycroft Holmes.**

Greg stared at his phone, then swiftly sent a reply.

**Work permitting, of course. Please tell Mr H that Mr L is looking forward to it.**

As it happened, felons were no respecters of Detective Inspector’s dates, nor those of the British Government either. The call out came late Friday afternoon and Greg knew that there would be no way he could get out of this one early. It was a bad one. Crime scene tape surrounded a large Victorian house on a suburban street, the scene of a brutal triple homicide. Two children and their father, skulls smashed with a hammer. Greg looked for Stuart Burrows, head of the SOCOs on scene. He found the man in the bathroom, swabbing the bloodied sink. The man looked up and eyed Greg impassively.

“They wouldn’t have known much,” Burrows offered, seeing Greg’s grim expression. “This was done from behind. Whoever it was tied them up, blindfolded them, walked around behind them and them hit them across the head, caved the skulls in. I suspect one initial blow, each time. Frighteningly efficient. I would hesitate to say that it was professional, but it seems… rather practiced. However, there are subsequent blows, but the first would have disabled them at least to unconsciousness. The other blows are just insurance. The way they fell, all collapsed forward, splatter pattern fits. There’s no sign of forced entry to the property, but some stuff has obviously been removed; jewellery, small items mostly. Nothing major. Our assailant washed his hands off here, in the bathroom, but no prints. The towel might yet yield DNA but don’t hold your breath. We also found a few cat hairs but no cats present, and a blue fiber, which doesn’t match anything here.” Burrows paused in his evidence gathering. "Have you traced the mother?"

“Distraught. Parents divorced three years ago. Apparently Dad had the kids for a long weekend.”

“Bloody bad timing.” _On more than one count..._

“Talking of timing, death happened when exactly?"

"I estimate around 3am, give or take. Ambient temperature, etc., etc.”

“Right, thanks, Stu. Sally, let’s question Mum first. I want to know where she was at 3am…”

**Please pass on my apologies to Mr H. Afraid I’m going to miss our…**

_What? Date? Nah, best not to push things. Appointment? Nope. Too formal. Assignation? God. that sounds like something from an Austen novel._

**Please pass on my apologies to Mr H. Afraid I’m going to miss our dinner. Work. Nasty triple murder. Can’t get away. Rearrange? Greg Lestrade.**

It seemed like forever before the reply came through, from Mycroft himself this time.

**Most unfortunate. I am grievously disappointed. Anthea will be in touch to reschedule. MH**

Greg wondered if the man was being sarcastic. There was no way that Mycroft Holmes was _grievously disappointed_ about anything. They didn’t refer to Mycroft Holmes as the Ice Man for nothing. Greg doubted that missing their date would qualify as anything so important.

He arrived home at a little after midnight, knowing that it was going to be a long day on the morrow. He lay for a while staring at the ceiling when his phone beeped again.

**The neighbour did it. Knows how to stun beasts, worked in abattoir. History of mental illness. SH**

Greg sat up and dialled Sherlock’s number.

“Lestrade, I wondered when you were going to call…”

“Okay, okay, what have you got and more to the point, why are you interested? This can’t rank much above a three to you?”

“Two actually, but that isn’t my point. You had to cancel on Mycroft. He came round tonight and was more disagreeable than ever. This means that you can wrap the case and accept dinner tonight instead and hopefully he will be less irritating than usual…”

“Thanks for the altruism, Sherlock.”

“Pleasure.”

“Now spill.”

“The neighbour, Dennis Aitchison, forty nine, now unemployed, worked in an abattoir ten years ago until he was dismissed for a fight with a fellow staff member over alleged cruelty to some of the beasts. There was an internal inquiry that went in the other man’s favour and Aitchison was dismissed. He apparently caught his neighbour’s kids taunting his cat—a ginger tom, it'll be a match for the hairs you found—but when he tried to take it up with the father, the man passed it off as kids being kids and refused to punish the son and daughter. Aitchison has a history of personality disorder, of some rather aggressive episodes, resulting in a couple of previous hospitalizations. He’s known to have a key to the family's home, he has previously been trusted with watering the plants when the father is off for the weekend visiting his new woman. So, Aitchison has motive, he had the opportunity, he has the knowledge. If you search his house I think you’ll find what you’re looking for. Goodnight, Gavin.”

The phone went dead. Greg took a breath and then picked up his phone to set the wheels of justice in motion, yet again. _Bloody Holmeses._

Greg was grabbing a bite to eat at lunchtime later that same day when a sleek black car pulled up nearby and the door opened. A shapely leg was just visible indicating it was Anthea, not Mycroft, in the vehicle. Greg peered in.

“Inspector, Mr Holmes wondered if you could spare him a few moments of your precious time?”

“Don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No,” she said cheerfully.

“Thought not.” Greg shrugged and got in. “What does he want this time? I can’t imagine he’d send for me just to re-arrange a dinner date.”

“A situation has arisen. He’ll tell you himself,” she replied, economically. They sat in silence the rest of the trip.

Mycroft looked tense, which was probably next to invisible to most people. Greg was a copper though, and despite Sherlock’s taunts he was trained to observe. The added lines of tension around the man’s eyes spoke of a serious headache. Whatever the situation was, it was obviously causing him stress, which was somewhat scary, given that the circumstances that would cause Mycroft stress had to be really difficult to deal with.

“Mr Holmes, what can I do for you?”

“It’s more a case of what I can do for you, Inspector.”

“Surely we’ve known each other long enough by now for you to call me Greg?” Mycroft paused, one eyebrow raised. He nodded and gave Greg a tight smile. “So, what’s this all about then?”

“Certain facts have been brought to my attention concerning one of your colleagues, I felt you should know. I can’t act myself, of course. Things like this are best left to others.” There was a slight pause, a head tilt to the left and grimace so small anyone else might not notice.

“What facts are those then? Who are we dealing with here?”

“Sergeant Michael Hopwood.”

“Hoppy? What’s he been up to now?”

“He is currently assigned to Homicide and Serious Crimes although his history is somewhat chequered. It appears it has come home to roost, as it were.”

“Yeah? I know he was with the Drug’s Squad before coming to us. What’s happened?”

“A contact of his, an Italian by the name of Giani Rocca turned up dead yesterday in Paris. Not in itself very notable but…” Mycroft paused momentarily again, rubbing fingers into one temple. “It follows on another four deaths in as many weeks, all people connected with a certain undercover operation that smashed a European drugs cartel back in 2005. That lead my people to believe DS Hopwood might be in danger. They’re removing him to safety as we speak but I wanted you to be aware in case anyone comes asking for him. The official party line is that he’s been taken ill and removed to a private hospital somewhere in Brighton. If anyone does ask, I would appreciate it if you informed me immediately."

“Of course. CCTV should record anyone accessing the department when I’m not there. I’ll gather he’s about as far from Brighton as it’s possible to get then.” Greg watched as Mycroft nodded and gave him a tight smile, then the frown returned again and Mycroft shifted with discomfort. _God, he really does look tense,_ Greg thought, observing the stress lines around Mycroft’s mouth. “Well, you have my word, I’ll tell you if anybody comes snooping around…” _Ah, bugger it, enough is enough._ Moving carefully, but motivated by a need to help, Greg stepped around the back of Mycroft's chair. Heavy but gentle hands landed on Mycroft’s shoulders. The man froze.

"Gregory... what...?"

"Sh. Please, Mycroft, let me help."

"Help?" Mycroft squeaked. He cleared his throat, coughed and tried, unsuccessfully, to shrug Greg's hands off. The next moment, however, strong fingers dug expertly into tense muscles and Mycroft melted under Greg's ministrations with a soft, slightly strangled groan.

"Easy there. Just try to relax, if you can."

"But, I don't have time for..."

"Nonsense, Mycroft. You need to make time. Just give me five minutes, that's all I ask." The man huffed, but ceased to struggle. Greg concentrated on Mycroft's neck and shoulders, working on the tight knots, despite that bloody suit getting in the way. "Just give me a chance. This is what I do."

“Do? I don’t understand…you're a poli...” 

“I’m also a Physio, you know, for the football team?”

“Football? Oh… I thought…” Mycroft paused, grunting softly as Greg’s thumb worked out a particularly stubborn knot. “I thought you played…”

“I used to,” Greg admitted, “but not now. I’m getting too old to chase around a field. This is less strenuous. Ex-girlfriend of mine taught me back when we were in Hendon.” Greg worked for five minutes, no more, watching the clock, hoping he could effect some relief for the man. When he pulled back and resumed his seat, Mycroft sighed softly. "Don't rush," Greg instructed. "Just take it easy for a moment or two." He watched as Mycroft pulled himself gently back together.

"That was...expertly done, if a little unorthodox.” Mycroft sounded a bit wrecked, although he actually looked a little better. “Thank you, Gregory. You are...that was quite surprising."

Greg chuckled. "I doubt much surprises you, Holmes." Mycroft paused, another frown drawing his brows together. “If you didn’t frown so much... “ Greg sighed regretfully. “I’m sorry, Mycroft, there isn’t much I can do in such a short time frame. I’d need about an hour to even start to put your back properly to rights.”

“I think you’ll find my back is fine,” Mycroft said, defensively.

“Bollocks,” Greg murmured, lengthening the word in a slow drawl. “but fine, whatever you say. You should get your eyesight and your teeth checked if you get headaches regularly though. Tension can come from a number of sources. Best to rule things out, if you can spare time in your busy schedule.” Mycroft was looking at him as though he’d grown another head. “I’d best get off then...I, er, guess you’re not including Hoppy’s team mates in that request?”

“Inside the team as well, please, just to be certain. I expect his immediate team mates will be inquisitive, but keep your eyes open for anyone outside that immediate sphere, especially those who might push for more information. Say nothing concerning his illness, won’t you? Don’t make things up, just tell whoever asks that you don’t know.”

“Right-o. Soooo…”

“Was there something…?”

“Just wondering… Dinner still an option tonight?”

“Oh, of course, but I thought you said you would be unavailable?”

“Tonight came free unexpectedly.”

“It did? I thought you were dealing with a triple murder?”

“I was, but it turned out to be the neighbour. We searched his house this morning and arrested him. He is behind bars as we speak. I left my DS building the case against him but honestly it isn’t hard to manage...” A few fleeting expressions crossed Mycroft’s face and Greg could just about see him thinking. _You solved that quickly. Wait...Sherlock? Ah, of course…_ Greg was suddenly perversely irritated.

“I see,” Mycroft said softly.

“What? Convinced I can’t solve it myself? Bloody fucking Hell, you Holmeses… You’ve no idea, have you?” Greg allowed irritation to colour his tone.

“Come now, Inspector. Sherlock did help you…”

“Nope. Sorry. Had enough bollocks from both of you to last me a lifetime. Sometimes I do manage without you both, you know. The world doesn’t stop because I choose to solve my own cases once in a while.”

“Inspector, my brother and I…” he paused and his eyes slid shut. “I'm sorry,” he offered unexpectedly.

“What?”

“I said…”

“Yes, I know...I...you...you never apologise, you know that? Who are you and what have you done with Mycroft Holmes? Why say sorry now?”

“Because,” Mycroft began carefully, then paused again. “Because my brother is incorrect when he labels you stupid. You should understand, next to our genius almost everyone is. When compared against his benchmark, most are already set up to fall short, but you..." He paused, thoughtful. "Your arrest record is impressive, even without Sherlock’s help, but Sherlock has a knack of seeing the facts and marrying them up much, much faster than anyone else. He has an uncanny ability to make links and assessments based on the available data. He would have made an incredible addition to my team, but it would have restricted him far more than is safe…”

“He doesn't like being restricted, that one. No respect for the bloody rules...”

“Exactly. However, I have no doubt that you yourself would come to the same conclusions as he did eventually but in a more measured fashion. As you are obviously aware, time is of the essence in a murder enquiry, Inspector. Sherlock simply gives you that time.”

“Hmph,” Greg huffed, partly mollified. “So now you’re saying I’m slow?” He couldn’t resist the little dig and watched the elder Holmes’ face. The eye roll had him chuckling. “Sorry, Mycroft. I have an ego, that’s all. Silly me for owning one, it just rears it’s ugly head now and again and I go all defensive.”

“Ego is what keeps us confident, Gregory. Self belief is a valuable asset, as long as it is reigned in and under control.”

“Yeah, right. So, this dinner then? 7.00 for 7.30? Tonight?”

“Yes, if you like. I’ll see you then. I’ll send a car.” Greg nodded, smiled and turned to leave. “Thank you, Gregory. My headache is less than it was. I...appreciate the gesture.”

Greg nodded and walked out, careful to hide his wide grin.


	2. Imagination Is a Wonderful Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's mind wanders a little...

Mycroft found himself lying face down while warm hands slid firmly over his skin, running along his spine and mapping each muscle, teasing the knots of tension out of Mycroft’s body until he was little more than putty in the man’s hands. He never allowed himself such indulgence as a rule but there was something about this beautiful silver fox of a man…

“You’re beautiful, Mycroft,” the voice whispered reverently in his ear, husky with desire and arousal. “So gorgeous. All that creamy skin...all mine. Is that what you want, Mycroft, my skin rubbing against yours, my hands all over you?”

“Yes...oh, yes…Oh, Gregory…” _Damn it all, I sound like a teenager with a crush, not a mature man in an important job, with gravitas and dignity and… oh, hang dignity, this is...heavenly._ Capable fingers worked deeply into the tissues, teasing and relaxing him, and always that husky voice in his ear, praising him, encouraging him, telling him how beautiful, how responsive he was. He basked in the glow, enjoyed the admiration and care that was being lavished on him as the hands worked lower and lower and a sudden tension visited a rather more appropriate part of his anatomy… His imagination supplied the exact treatment for that particular ache. A husky chuckle in his ear, an encouraging palm pressing against his...

“Sir?” Mycroft snapped out of his revery with a jolt that closely resembled being hit with a taser, nearly sending his teacup into the air, never mind onto the floor. He saw Anthea patiently waiting on the other side of the desk, a stack of folders in her arms.

“Yes?” It came out rather more sharply that he intended, or that she deserved. It also sounded more like a strangled cat than it should have done. He cleared his throat, seeking his dignified timbre again. Damn the man, he was even working his evil magic from a distance.

“The information you requested has arrived, sir.” She looked at him a little oddly.

“Ah, yes.” He leaned forward as she placed the papers in front of him and went through the title of each file. _What is the matter with me?_ Mycroft had been letting his mind drift, remembering how those hands had felt on him, heavy and warm and...capable. Those strong hands had eased the knots of tension and teased a state of relaxation from him he had not felt in...months. Mycroft was not given to whimsy as a rule, but if he knew one thing, he wanted that feeling again. His imagination threatened to wander again, tantalising thoughts of that firm grip on another part of his anatomy almost overwhelming him. _For the love of… No! I will not allow this...this succubus… No, that is wrong. Succubi are female._ He dredged his memory. _Incubus. That was it. This incubus cannot be allowed to disrupt my life so completely. Although… Those hands…_

His brain almost shut down at the thought. He did not do intimacy. It was too dangerous, not to mention almost impossible for him to navigate with any degree of accuracy. Mycroft was no slouch when it came to personal interaction; he was a master at negotiating deals across a table or wrangling touchy heads of state with his usual impeccable diplomacy. In situations where the impersonal nature of the transaction allowed him to maintain a certain distance, he was second to none. Relationships on a personal footing confounded him though, left him high and dry.

Romantic partners were too needy, too unwilling to compromise and always full of contradictions. There was more to lose. Trust was hard won and easily lost; far too easily lost when all was said and done, and once lost, usually never regained in the same degree. Caring was not an advantage either. At least, not for a man who armed himself against emotion. It got in the way of doing his job, of being efficient. However…

If Mycroft was honest with himself, which was far less than he would ever admit, he missed being cared about. The regard shown by Lestrade, who was little more than a stranger considering the small number of times they had actually met, had been a surprise. Of the little that Mycroft knew about the man was the certain knowledge that he was, above all things, compassionate. _How long has it been since anyone showed me compassion?_

“Sir?"

“What now?” Irritation seeped into his tone and Anthea gave him another odd look.

“There’s been a development,” she said, a little waspishly.

“What kind of development?”

“The restaurant you booked for tonight.”

“What about it?”

“I’m afraid it’s had to close.”

“Close? Why on earth has it closed?”

“Fire.”

“Ah.”

“Extensive damage to the kitchens.”

“A little unfortunate.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of making reservations at another venue, sir.”

“Good. Which one?”

“No 34.”

“Good gracious. Their dress code is a little formal…”

“Sir?” That was not something that usually bothered her boss.

“My guest is...probably unprepared for that.” Mycroft checked his watch. Too late to alter it and give Gregory enough time to prepare. _Ah well…_

**Dinner venue changed. Apologies for short notice. Suit and tie required. MH**

_Bloody Hell, now what?_ Greg surveyed his phone resentfully. _Do I even have a decent suit? Yes, bought for the wife’s cousin’s wedding the year before last. Damn it all, do I have her to thank for that? No, it was too fucking expensive at the time, no matter that it might get an airing tonight. Least I’m getting my money’s worth out of it. Is it okay for wherever we’re heading? No fucking idea..._ Greg noted he spent more time getting ready that evening than he usually did for a date. _What is wrong with me? This is a reward for services rendered, not a bloody date. Hells Bells, now that sounds like I'm prostituting myself._ Greg frowned at himself. _Does that constitute bribery?_

Cursing again, he threw on a dark plum-coloured shirt without thinking much about it, and slung his best silk tie around his neck. Both of which set the charcoal grey suit and his silvered old man’s hair off very nicely. He was ready before the car arrived, even having managed to shine his shoes too. Mycroft was in the car waiting for him.

"Good evening, Inspector. I trust you are well?"

Greg caught sight of the normally cold blue eyes taking an admiring gander at his guest. Greg couldn’t help but play up, puffing up his chest a little and straightening his shoulders. Obviously the suit was the right choice, even if it was his only choice. "Yes, thank you. Yourself?”

"Fine, thank you.”

“Survived the afternoon then?”

“Yes, indeed. I am a little careworn by the day, as you are aware, but not debilitatingly so. I must apologise for the short notice concerning our change of plans but there was an unfortunate situation at my previous choice of venue.”

“Oh?”

“I’m afraid it seems there was a fire in the kitchens.”

“I can see how that might cause a problem.” Greg grinned at him.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed, trying to ignore the cheeky expression.

“Steaks were well done then?” Greg was pleased to see his joke raised a smile. “Crispy duck their new speciality?”

“I’m pleased to see their misfortune doesn’t seem to have caused you undue inconvenience?”

“Nah, not really.” _If only you knew…_

“May I say, your… _intervention_ earlier, I have to admit that it considerably improved my condition. You really are quite good at your...chosen hobby."

"Well, I guess if a thing’s worth doing it’s worth doing well. Glad the training paid off.” Greg flashed him another grin. “You know, there’s more where that came from, if you’d like?” There was silence for a moment and Greg looked across at Mycroft who appeared to be thinking. “I can do full body massage…” Greg let the offer hang in the air. “...and there’s no need to be so formal. Call me Greg."

"You prefer that to Gregory?" That was obviously something safer to talk about, if Mycroft’s quick question and avoidance of the other topic was anything to go by.

"Yeah, as a rule," Greg admitted.

"You do not care for your given name?"

"Nah, it's okay, I guess. Used to hate it when I was a kid though. It really didn’t fit a working class background, but mum was a romantic. It’s just nobody calls me by it now..."

"Would you mind very much if I did?"

"Er...I guess not, but why?"

"I do expect that if a person has been given a name of more than one syllable it is only right and proper for those using it to struggle to the end of it. I am also in some small way old-fashioned. A man's name bespeaks his character, Gregory, and yours does an admirable job. I would feel privileged to be allowed to use it."

"Eh? Really? Well...okay then...if that's how you feel about it, use away."

Mycroft smiled. "Thank you, Gregory.”

“Doesn't anybody ever shorten your name?”

“It is hardly the easiest name to shorten and no, not as a rule. Again, I rather insist that my name is pronounced in full.”

“Traditionalist then?”

“You might say.”

“So, wha’d’you say then? About my offer? I meant it. Give me an hour or so, I’m sure I could sort your back out.”

“I think you’ll find my back is fine.” #

“And as I said before, Boll…”

“We’re here.”

“...ocks. Mycroft, your posture is off, I can tell by looking at you, you know. I’ll bet you get back ache when you stand for too long…?” Mycroft’s silence was answer enough. “Mycroft,” Greg began but was unsure what to say. He held up his hands placatingly. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ll mind my own business, but honestly, the offer’s there if you want it.”

Mycroft regarded him with a neutral expression for a heartbeat but then a smile broke across his lips. “I appreciate the gesture, Gregory, but my schedule rarely allows such… indulgences. However, I shall bear your offer in mind.”

“Hardly an indulgence,” Greg muttered, but the car door opened and their driver stood there, waiting for them to disembark.

Mycroft regarded Greg and gestured for him to go first. “After you, Inspector.”

The food, and the company, both proved to be amazingly good. Mycroft was the consummate conversationalist without making Greg feel like he was struggling to respond. He was witty and interesting to talk to, and they shared a lot that Greg would never in a million years have believed possible. Several glances were exchanged across the table which made him wonder if Mycroft was trying to tell him something.

“What?”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft allowed the elegant elevation of one eyebrow to convey his curiosity.

“Well, you looked like you were about to say something. You know, make some amazing Holmesian observation about my tie or something.”

“Your tie is nothing if not well chosen, Gregory, there is no need to mock.”

“I wasn’t mocking, honest. You and your brother are...amazing, really, but you have this look that says you’re thinking and I was wondering what about.”

“We do?" _More observant than previously given credit for_. "I was…” _merely enjoying the view that you present_. “...admiring your sartorial choices.”

Greg chuckled. “First time anybody’s said that to me. Besides, you can blame the ex-. She chose it for me when we got invited to her cousin’s wedding.”

“I am sure you had some input. I am certain you are quite capable of aesthetic judgement where your own clothes are concerned.”

“Well, well. Mycroft Holmes, paying me compliments? If I didn’t know better I would have to conclude that you’re flirting with me.”

_Bugger…_ “If that is the case, then I am afraid that I am not yet fluent in the art. I have not had much experience.”

“I thought you could master every skill you set out to learn. Sherlock said you only took a couple of hours to master Serbian. That’s a whole fucking language, Mycroft…Oh, God, sorry. I shouldn’t swear. That was crass...sorry.” Mycroft actually smiled at his clumsy attempt to apologise.

“I doubt it will be the last time this restaurant hears profanity, Gregory. I suspect it is highly likely when some of their patrons see the bill…”

Greg let out a full bodied laugh and then clapped a hand over his mouth in apology. “Bugger, I’d better be careful or they’ll be evicting me for noise pollution or something.”

“Nonsense, Gregory. They value my patronage too highly to evict any guest of mine. With regard to your earlier comment, I do learn such things eventually but in my defence I have only just embarked upon this course of action.”

“So I should give you a couple of hours then?” Greg flashed him another grin.

“That depends on how often I can practice my new found skills.”

“So, the more practice you get…”

“The better I become, of course. However, flirting seems rather a waste of energy when one might just as well come out and say what one means.”

“You would come to that conclusion.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re a Holmes," Greg observed. “You’re not given to wasting energy. You prefer to be succinct and to the point.”

“Very true. However I fail to see how that could be anything other than an asset. Miscommunication is such a bore. In my limited experience I find that flirting is a rather hit and miss method of conveying one’s meaning. I would much rather come straight out and say what is in my mind.”

“Flirting is fun, though.”

“Fun?”

“Yes, fun. Everybody needs fun. Would be terrible if we took ourselves too seriously.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose slightly. “There is, I feel, a time and a place for... _fun_ , Gregory.”

“True. So...when’s the last time you had fun, Mycroft?”

“Me?”

“Yes, Mycroft, you. What kind of fun do you have?”

“It doesn’t tend to be something I have the time for.”

“Aw, Mycroft, that...that’s just sad, you know that? You should have time for fun, and make time for yourself. Christ, you must have some time to yourself.”

“Alas, I find my life is seldom gifted with such indulgence.”

“There you go again. It’s not an indulgence. Your health could suffer, you know,” Greg insisted. “How else do you cope with the stress?”

“I do have my... _outlets_ , Gregory. There is no need to concern yourself.” Greg could sense a brush off when he heard one. He sipped his wine and applied himself to his food. He sensed rather than saw Mycroft glance across at him but stayed quiet. He could just about hear Mycroft’s mind working, analysing, deducing. “However… outlets are more productive when shared with an appreciative partner,” Mycroft said unexpectedly. “I wonder if you might like to join me on occasion?”

“That would depend entirely on what those outlets are. I mean, I’m fine with football but you can forget fox hunting. You don’t ride out with the hounds do you?”

“Rest assured, Gregory, I do not,” Mycroft said firmly. _Not any more, at any rate…_

“That’s good then. Bunch of toffs, chasing down a defenceless bloody fox. Ought to be outlawed...Oh, yeah, it already has been. How about that?” Greg drained his wine glass. “I’ll drink to keeping that little ban, thanks.”

Mycroft smiled, although it lacked a little...enthusiasm, although he really tried. _Why one earth should I be bothered about this man’s opinion?_ It unsettled him. Gregory was smiling at him again, as if the bastard knew what effect he was having and was playing on it. Mycroft made a mental note to ensure the ban on hunting was not revoked.

“I’ll be back in a tic,” Greg rose to his feet. “I need to see a man about a dog.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby,” Mycroft replied. He watched Greg manoeuvre between the tables and Mycroft would swear he was deliberately showing off as he walked away. Greg positively swaggered through the door as Mycroft signalled the waiter for the bill.


	3. Night Cap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is out of his comfort zone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a short one, folks.

When Greg returned, Mycroft was waiting in the restaurant lobby, an affable smile in place. “A nightcap, Inspector?” he offered.

“Sounds nice. Where did you have in mind?”

“I know a little place.” Mycroft suggested, leaning on his ever present umbrella. "Off the grid, intimate, cozy even…”

“Oh? Can’t imagine you doing cozy, but maybe we should pay it a visit anyway.”

“Capital. After you,” and the two men went out into drizzling rain, ushered to the waiting car by the chauffeur holding an umbrella for them both, and Greg wasn’t surprised to find they were promptly driven through the evening drizzle to Mycroft’s townhouse.

“This is your little off-the-grid place then?”

“Of course. I would not trust anywhere else to give the same ambience, I’m afraid. Do, please, relax and feel at home, Inspector.”

“God’s sakes, Mycroft, call me by my name, please,” Greg insisted as he followed Mycroft to the study across the hall. The oak panels and high ceilings looked as if they hadn’t been changed since the place was built and the traditional setting fit Mycroft like one of his bespoke suits.

“Very well, Gregory,” Mycroft agreed. “Now, would you care for an ale? Or partake of a single malt with me?”

“Well, if you’re offering, I’ll take the malt.” He watched Mycroft pour them both a generous measure of the amber liquid and sniffed appreciatively when he was passed the crystal tumbler. “Ah, that is...very good.”

“Talisker,” Mycroft said by way of explanation. “25 years old.”

“Very nice. So...Mycroft….”

“Gregory?”

“I, um. Look, I didn’t intend to say any more about it but...I really do think you should let me work on your back muscles for you.” Gregory watched Mycroft as he made his suggestion. “I know you’re reluctant, but…”

“I believe I told you, Gregory, my back is fine…” Mycroft took a seat in front of the book-lined shelves close to the real fire in the grate and regarded his guest with a slight frown pulling his eyebrows together.

“And I believe I said ‘bollocks’ to that.” Greg was grinning broadly, a challenge in his eyes. “Although it really doesn’t matter to me if your back is okay or not. Massage is good for you, and it feels great. Come on, Mycroft,” he encouraged. “What have you got to lose?”

 _Everything? Nothing?_ Mycroft sipped and considered. “I have no good reason for you, Gregory. I shall be candid with you. I admit I find such encounters somewhat out of my comfort zone.”

“Is that all?” Greg smiled. “In that case I can appreciate your reluctance but there’s no reason to let it make you feel uncomfortable. You’re off the hook anyway, we couldn’t do it tonight,” Greg added. “Not a good idea after a big meal.”

“I thought that was swimming?”

“That too. Why? You got a hidden swimming pool round here as well?”

“In the basement,” Mycroft said offhandedly, as if having a swimming pool in one’s basement was normal. “However, I doubt our schedules will behave long enough to allow us the luxury of enough time in each others’ company to make your suggestion worthwhile.”

Greg knew a brush-off when he heard one. “Pity. I’m still convinced it would benefit you. Look, Mycroft, what are you worried about? It doesn’t need to lead to anything more, you know? You scared I’ll try to seduce you or something?” Greg watched Mycroft bluster a little and smiled. “I was joking, sorry. You know, as a therapist I do have a duty of care to my clients and it would be grossly unprofessional of me to do anything to compromise that. I know it’s only my hobby and all but I do take it seriously. It’s not something to pull the birds, or the boys. All I’m offering is to try to alleviate some of your aches, that’s all. I could do some good, If you’d only let me try. However, if you’re reluctant, then I’m won’t push anymore. That would be unprofessional as well, so ball’s in your court. You let me know if you want me to try. Now…” He paused and took another swallow of the fine liquor in his glass and smiled disarmingly. “Thank you for tonight, Mycroft. Really enjoyed it.”

“That’s...quite alright, Gregory. I…” _I really do not want this to end…despite my reluctance to succumb to your suggestions._ “...I enjoyed your company. It has been quite illuminating.” _And I sense our time coming to a close._

Greg checked his watch and sighed. “I’d best be getting home. It’s late.” He took his phone out to call a taxi. “What’s the address here?”

“Oh, please don’t bother to call a cab. I’ll have my driver take you.”

“Don’t worry on my account…”

“Nonsense, Gregory, I insist. I…” Mycroft paused. _I really want to ask you to stay, to share more conversation, to become better acquainted… Damn, why am I no bloody good at this?_

“Mycroft? You okay there?”

“What? Yes, yes of course. I was merely recalling an onerous duty I need to accomplish tomorrow, committing it to memory, nothing more. Forgive me if it seemed I was...a little distracted for a moment.”

“Okay, no problem.” Mycroft held the door open for him and Greg walked past him into the hallway. A maid materialised with his coat and just as quickly disappeared again. Outside, the limo was idling at the kerbside and Mycroft shook his hand.

“Thank you again, Gregory. It was a most pleasant evening.”

“It was, thanks.” The driver held the door open and Greg ducked inside and sat down. He found the window control and lowered it. “One more thing though, Mycroft.”

Mycroft raised an eloquent eyebrow again. “Yes?”

“You are a crap liar. Onerous duty, my arse. Still, I’ll give you full marks for trying. Goodnight.”

Mycroft was left staring at the car as it disappeared down the road and around the corner of the street. Suddenly his phone pinged.

**Dinner, my place, week on Sunday. And leave your phone at home. GL**

 


	4. Dinner Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit of a slow burn here...

Sunday rolled around quickly, and Greg suddenly found himself with a dinner to plan and a vague feeling that Mycroft would stand him up. He wouldn’t be surprised if the politician didn’t show. Dinner at his place would hardly stand up to the Savoy after all. He decided on a traditional Sunday roast, with trimmings, and started early. If Mycroft didn’t show, the food would still be eaten and the leftovers frozen for later so, no harm could be done, could it? _Except perhaps to my ego…_

Mycroft dithered. He had managed to deflect most of his work but there was one 8pm phone call that would not go away and he considered it would be grossly bad form to interrupt their evening by having to take a call in the middle of dinner. However, nothing for it if he did not want to miss Gregory’s offering. He really hoped it wasn’t terrible. He would employ every ounce of acting skill at his disposal but he feared it would be a bad effort. 

Greg was surprised at the knock on his door at 6.30 sharp. Surely too early for his dinner guest? 

“Hello, Mrs Pritchard, what can I do for you this evening?”

“Oh, Greg, I am sorry but my heating won’t go on. Would you be able to take a quick look?” He looked down at his small, frail, 87 year old neighbour with a sinking heart. 

“It’ll have to be quick, Mrs P. I’m expecting someone.” 

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be a bother…”

Mycroft could not understand why there was no answer. The lights were on, the door locked, but he could smell the savoury smells wafting out the open window. He pulled out his phone and hit speed dial. Moments later the phone started ringing, but that was odd, it was ringing behind him. He spun round to see Greg walking toward him…

“Gregory, why are you…?”

“Don’t. Just...don’t, Myc. Please do not ask why I am soaking wet.”

“Very well, but you must allow for my natural curiosity being peeked.”

“Point.” Greg unlocked his door and went immediately to his kitchen to explore the food. “Oh, thank God. It isn’t burnt.” He retrieved the roast from the oven and placed it on the granite work surface, hands clad in incongruously floral oven gloves. “We’ll have to wait for the veg though, sorry. Didn’t think I would be so long.” He switched on the steamer and glanced across at Mycroft, standing there in the kitchen looking somewhat strained.

“Look, I am so sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. I was...doing a neighbour a favour.”

“Really?”

“Yes...Mrs Pritchard. Her boiler was on the blink...She...um...asked me if i would take a look.”

“A man of many talents, it would seem.” 

Greg switched the kettle on and grabbed a couple of mugs, then paused and took down a proper teapot. “Drink?”

“Thank you. Do you happen to have any Earl Grey?”

“Think so,” Greg replied, rummaging in the cupboard. He found the box at the back of the cupboard. “Thought so, here we go.” 

“So...Mrs Pritchard?” 

“She looks on me as a bit of a handyman. She thinks I’m safe because I’m a copper. So...I...well, I went to see what I could do.” He checked his watch and groaned. “Over an hour ago. I am so sorry…” 

“Could she not have accomplished the job? Called in a plumber, for instance?”

“Well, Mrs Pritchard isn’t very good with that kind of thing.”

“And you considered having a shower while you were there would save time?”

Greg sighed. “I know what this must look like, but Mrs Pritchard is a tiny, frail 87 year old lady. She’s very sweet and very generous but she has this annoying little dog called Bunty… I was bleeding the radiators, because there was an air lock which was stopping the heating, and I...well, Bunty decided to attack my feet while I was doing it, she tripped me up and the water went all over before I could get the radiator key back in to close it off again…”

“I see.” Mycroft struggled not to smile and failed. “You should go get dry, you know. Bad for your health to be cold and wet.”

“Sorry. I’ve buggered up our date…”

“On the contrary, Gregory. The food is not ruined, in fact it smells wonderful. Nobody has ever gone to this trouble for me before. I can entertain myself for the time it takes you to get dry and change. Go on, now. I shall peruse your book shelves in the meantime.”

Greg smiled, but it was a little half-hearted, and trailed off like a naughty schoolboy to his bedroom to get himself changed. 

When he returned, he found the tea made and two steaming mugs on the table. The veg was steaming nicely in the three tier steamer and there was music playing softly in the background. Mycroft’s eyes slid appraisingly over him as he entered, noting the dark polo shirt and navy chinos with appreciation. 

“Wasn’t aware you liked Jazz, Mycroft,” Greg commented. 

“There’s a lot about me you are not yet aware of, Gregory. I trust you find out more in due time. You are none the worse for your soaking?”

“Nope, just a bit damp. So...let me see if the roasts are done.” He went into the kitchen to check. Greg had thankfully uncorked a bottle of red before going next door and he took it and two glasses back with him to the table. “Hope this is okay. I have no clue about wine, I’m afraid.” 

Mycroft examined the bottle. “An agreeable choice, Gregory. I commend you.”

“Well, this is where I should take the kudos for it, but I can’t. I asked the guy in the wine shop what went well with a good roast and he recommended this one.”

“I am glad you took his advice.” 

“So...Mycroft, you...you said there was a lot about you I don’t yet know. So what might I be allowed to find out?”

“That depends.”

“Oh?”

“On your line of questioning, Inspector.” Mycroft grinned. 

“Challenge accepted,” Greg replied, eyes flashing and grin widening. “So, guilty pleasure?”

“I try not to feel guilt, Gregory.”

“Aw, come on, what is it? Toffees? Desert? Cake? Fast cars, fast women…” There was a snort and Greg chuckled. “Okay, so what is it?”

“If you must know...Turkish Delight. Rose or violet flavoured. I favour the authentic style though.”

“Violet flavoured? Never heard of that before.”

“Hm. Not the cheapest, but the complete fusion of turkish delight and parma violets. And you? What _floats your boat_ , as it were?”

“I’m a salted caramel guy, myself. And I love tuna and cheese.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “What? You asked.”

“I cannot abide tuna. Smoked salmon, or crab, but not tuna. Cheese, I do love, preferably crumbly.”

“Wensleydale?” Greg smiled. “Have to say, I am partial to a lovely bit of salmon myself.” He clattered about the kitchen, preparing the meal, enjoying the simple pleasure of putting the whole thing together. “I remember my dad caught a salmon once, it was the only fish he ever caught. He loved fishing, just wasn’t very good at it. But this fish, it was amazing. Never forgotten the taste.”

“Fresh caught fish is wonderful in itself,” Mycroft commented, “but when you are the person who caught it…”

“Do you fish?”

“Sometimes, on our estate, we have the fishing rights to the river that borders the property.”

“You have...an estate?” 

“A modest one. Ours is an old family. I believe it was a gift by Charles II on his accession, to those families who supported his father and his restoration. It has been in the family ever since.” Greg decided that it was best not to pursue that line of enquiry, and drained the carrots in silence.

When they finally sat down, Greg was pleased with the result. Maybe it wasn’t Michelin starred but it was cooked well. 

He watched apprehensively as Mycroft took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “This is...very well done, Gregory. The flavour is wonderful.”

“Really? Thanks. I was sure it wouldn’t come up to restaurant standard…”

“Nonsense, of course it doesn’t. For one thing, this is good honest food, traditional, cooked in a domestic setting. For another, you are untrained, but for someone who spends his time arresting our capital’s wrong-doers, you cook amazingly well. My compliments.” 

“Right, thank you, I think.” Greg lifted his wine glass and sniffed, then took a sip. 

“And if I may be so bold, you also police our capital with equal alacrity…”

Greg spluttered his wine. “What did you say?”

“My apologies, I had no desire to cause you any distress, Gregory.”

“You didn’t, just surprised me, that’s all.”

“And you are not, I think, used to receiving compliments.”

“No, you’re right there. I’m usually the whipping boy, not the medal winner.”

“An injustice, Gregory. A dreadful injustice.”

“Nah, I’m not that good.” Greg stopped and stared. “Really? Come off it, Mycroft, I’m not...well, just…” He shrugged. “I’m not that good,” he repeated lamely. He honestly had no idea how to take Mycroft’s words. 

“Gregory...I’ve been thinking…” 

“Yeah?” Anything to change the awkward subject…

“I wondered… might I avail myself of your...talents, but in a more modest fashion to start with?”

“Eh? You mean...You’ve reconsidered?”

“I was merely wondering if it would be at all possible to...well, I’m not sure, but...I suffer headaches sometimes…”

“You been to a doctor about them?”

“Of course. It is simply something I am susceptible to. I have had plenty of tests and opinions, and the general consensus seems to be that they are a stress response.”

“Well, that’s not good. All the more reason to find something that might help.”

Mycroft nodded. “When might you be free to come to mine? Is that how it’s done? I don’t know how you arrange these things.”

“No, that’s fine. I can come to yours. I have a portable table…”

“Table?”

“Yeah, table. Treatment bed, therapy bed, call it what you wish.” 

“I see.”

“You will,” Greg said with a broad grin. “Mycroft, you’ll enjoy it, promise.”

Mycroft rather thought he might enjoy it too much, that was the problem. He was saved by his phone ringing. "Ah, my apologies, Gregory, but this is a phone call I have to take." Mycroft looked apologetic and Greg waved it away with a smile. Saved by the bell, literally.


	5. Time Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finally avails himself of Greg's services...

When Mycroft returned from the call, Greg was smiling. 

“What?” Mycroft asked. “Is there something…?”

“Thought I told you to leave your phone at home,” Greg said.

“Ah.” Mycroft stared at the offending article before dropping it in his pocket. “Alas, I am afraid it would be impossible for me to do so. The Home Secretary has been in meetings all day and needed to consult me on a small matter. I couldn’t deflect that particular call, I’m afraid. Won’t happen again.”

Greg huffed. “See that it doesn’t, Holmes, or I shall have to confiscate your phone while you’re here.” 

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Mycroft answered smoothly, a contrite smile in place.

“Good enough. Can’t have all and sundry calling and interrupting my hard work, can I?”

“I hardly think the Home Secretary would consider himself ‘all and sundry’, do you?”

“Possibly not, no, but it was worth a try.” 

Mycroft checked his watch. “My apologies but I had best be going soon. I have an early start tomorrow.” 

“No problem. Coffee?”

“Of course. I will stay for coffee but I really should go before 11.”

Greg waved Mycroft off in his black car that night with a bemused expression, despite his smile as the car pulled away. He allowed the smile to fade to one of perplexed thought as he closed his door on the government official who was anything but a minor player in the parliamentary battlefield. The man was suave and sophisticated and a complete enigma. What he saw in Greg, the policeman wasn’t sure. 

**Thank you for dinner, Gregory. The food was truly delicious. Would it be convenient for you to call on me tomorrow night? I find I have an unexpected window of opportunity. MH**

_Oh, bugger, seriously, double bugger…_ Tomorrow, he was acting as physio for team practice, and he really couldn’t ditch that. He sighed, thumb hovering over the keys… Hang on though…

_**What time were you thinking? GL** _

**Not before eight I’m afraid, I have a late meeting that I am sure will prove to be arduous. Would you mind the lateness? MH**

_**Actually no. Would it be cheeky to ask if we could make it 8.30? GL** _

**Very well. I shall send a car. MH**

He would be cutting it fine but it might work. He sent off a reply in the affirmative and had to hope that nobody did any serious damage to themselves tomorrow night… 

**00000000000000000**

“Bloody Hell, Greg, if looks could kill. What gives?”

Greg turned to see Dimmock standing at the door to the changing rooms, covered in mud after the downpour. _Oh yes, it had rained alright._ So badly that Davidson had slipped, tripped up two more of the team and ended in a heap underneath everyone. He was now sporting a broken wrist, and one of the others had a sprained ankle. The Ambulance had just left, and it was now 8pm. They had cancelled the rest of the practice but it was somewhat like shutting the door after the horse had bolted.

“I had somewhere to be tonight, that’s all. Bit late to make it now.”

“Ah, okay. What, you mean you had a date?”

“Not exactly. Client.” 

“Okay. Well, ambulance has gone, and the rest of us are okay, so why don’t you get yourself gone? We can clear up here.”

“Thanks, but it’s a bit late for me to get back home and change and get to his…”

“Which is why it won’t be necessary,” said a voice from the corridor behind him. Greg whirled to see Mycroft standing there, dapper in his three piece suit and Crombie overcoat, gold watch chain glinting from his waistcoat pocket in the overhead lights. 

“What… Mycroft, how did you know I was here?”

“A very simple feat. Nothing esoteric, I assure you. I called on Sherlock, and in the course of conversation, John happened to say he felt sure you were at a practice tonight. So here I am.” 

“That’s...good, but I’m not exactly ready to go…There was an accident…”

“Yes, I saw the ambulance leaving. Not too serious, I hope.”

“One of the lads slipped in the mud and tripped up the others who fell on him. Suspected broken wrist, which is a bugger because we need him this season.” “My commiserations. I hope you can find someone else to fill the gap.”

“No idea. We can but put the word out…”

“There is a young man on my staff who plays, but I only half listen to conversation concerning football, as you know. I feel sure I heard him say something about wanting to find a club to join. Is this a police league or can anybody join?”

“Well, strictly it’s police but...maybe we could stretch the rules a bit to include security services. That’s what he does, right?”

“I believe so. Would you like me to ask him? I could pass your number on and you can speak directly to him if you wish?”

“Sounds good. Thank you, Mycroft. Now, are you okay to wait while I get changed?”

“I can wait, Gregory. Please, take your time. We’ve no hurry. Although I deliberately did not eat heavily tonight and doubtless I will be a little peckish soon. I wondered if you would care to partake of supper with me later?”

“Oh, yeah, that would be good. I’ve not eaten yet either, came straight here after work so, yeah, good idea. I’ll be back in a mo.” Greg hurried off and into the changing rooms while Mycroft drifted outside again, seeking the warmth of his car. 

Greg found the car in the carpark out the front of the club, sinking into the comfort of the leather seats with a sigh. “Forgot, my table is at home, can we call by?”

“Not a problem.” Mycroft rapped on the screen and it lowered with a soft hum as the driver pressed the button on the dash. 

“Sir?”

“I need you to call by Inspector Lestrade’s address. He has something he needs to collect before we go on to mine.”

“Very good, sir.” The screen hummed back up and Mycroft turned to Greg and smiled. 

“It’s very good of you to give up your evening, Gregory.”

“Nonsense. I’m glad to do it. Besides I enjoy your company you know. It’s not exactly a hardship.” _Not all I’d like to do to you either but you’d probably run a mile..._

“That is kind of you to say, Gregory. I enjoy your company too.” _Not all I would like to enjoy, my dear, but you may run a mile if I suggested anything… untoward._

They arrived at Mycroft’s closer to nine after calling off at Greg’s home to collect the folding treatment couch. Mycroft insisted on tea first, and Greg wasn’t going to object. 

“You should drink anyway, you’ll need fluids,” Greg explained. “I would suggest having water to hand for after the session.”

“I shall see to it. Where do you want me?” 

Greg was careful to hide his expression following that statement. _Come on, Holmesy, what a turn of phrase._ He wasn’t sure that it was accidental either. Mycroft had been casting looks his way during their journey and Greg wasn’t all that sure he’d interpreted them correctly. He’d been all smiles the day before and jesting about flirting, and not having much experience. Maybe it was more than simple jesting. “Here’ll do,” He indicated the living room. “There’s room for me to move around.”

“Capital. I’ll leave you to it.” Mycroft disappeared down the hall presumably to arrange their drinks as Greg carried his bag and the bed into Mycroft’s lounge, dumped his bag on a chair and started to unfold the bed.

It wasn’t long before Mycroft returned bearing two steaming mugs. 

“Can we mute this lighting?” Greg asked. 

“Of course. There’s a dimmer, unless you wish me to turn off the overheads and we can use the table lamps.”

“Whatever, just something more restful would be better.” Moments later, Mycroft had altered the lighting to a softer glow, then leaned against the doorframe, sipping his tea and watching Greg as he finished making sure the legs of the table wouldn’t collapse, leaning his weight on it to be certain. 

When he was satisfied he turned and accepted his own mug from Mycroft, and smiled reassuringly (he hoped) as he sipped his own steaming brew. 

“Best get undressed and into your dressing gown. You can keep it on if it makes you feel more comfortable though. Keep your pants on as well if you like. Your choice there. I’ll start with your neck and shoulders, as agreed. We can see how we go, and we can reassess if you’d like me to go further later. Okay?”

“Acceptable,” Mycroft replied. 

“Are you on any medication for anything?”

“No, why?”

“Just checking. Sometimes there are contraindications for using this method of therapy. Not allergic to anything either?”

“Not to my knowledge. Contraindications again?”

“Yup. In case I use an oil you might react badly to.”

“Ah, I see. You’re very conscientious.”

“Duty of care, Mycroft. I believe I said I take this seriously.” 

“Indeed you did.”

“Okay, when you’re ready then.” Greg rummaged in his bag for his oils and towels as Mycroft left the room. Greg took the opportunity to shed his jacket and shirt, leaving his short sleeved t-shirt on, which gave him more freedom of movement. Then he waited Mycroft’s return. 

It did not take long but when he returned Mycroft was wearing a gorgeous burgundy silk brocade dressing gown that fell in folds almost to the floor. His feet were bare. _Bloody hell, he has long feet…_ Greg’s mind automatically worked to compute the length of those feet and the implications concerning other parts of the man’s anatomy. A throat clearing interrupted his chain of thought. 

“Gregory, are you ready?”

“Oh yes, yes I am. I thought something… woodsy?” He brandished a bottle. “Sandalwood and frankincense?” 

Mycroft nodded. “Acceptable,” he replied. “Although I have little clue what frankincense smells like. I trust your judgement. Now, how does one get on this thing while still maintaining an air of dignity?”

“Good question. I’ll tell you when I find out.” Greg immediately grinned and patted the cushion. “Sit down on the edge here. Use your arm to control your descent as you lie down on your side, it puts less strain on your back that way, Your legs automatically come up as you lie down. If you’re on your back, you can have a thin pillow under your head. If you lie on your face, the hole in the bed cushions your head and helps you lie flat but means you can still breath. I’ll help you get into position, don’t worry. Did you keep your pants on?”

“I kept my boxers on, yes.”

“No need of a towel around your waist then.” He guided Mycroft to sit, helped him lie down, and then guided him to turn over. Once there, he fiddled with the gown’s belt and succeeded in loosening it and tugging it down over Mycroft’s shoulders. Grabbing a large fluffy bath sheet, he draped it across Mycroft’s lower half to help keep him warm. “There we go. You ready?” Greg emptied a generous amount of oil into his palm and rubbed his hands together, warming the oil up. 

“Okay then, I’m going to start on your neck…” 

Mycroft could not suppress a soft groan as Greg began, strong fingers running up along his tight neck muscles. Greg worked carefully along each side, easing the tense muscles and tendons carefully, leaning just the right amount of pressure as he did so.

“Pressure okay? Not hurting too much.”

“On the...contrary...Gregory. This is...it feels...perfect.”

“Good, that’s what I need to hear. Keep me updated though. If it hurts, tell me. I should think it’ll ache but sharper pain I need to know about. Okay?”

Greg worked along each freckled shoulder and down each arm, paying attention to the long elegant fingers as well. All the while Mycroft was sighing softly, relaxing under Greg’s knowledgeable fingers, fingers he itched to do more with than just massage. 

_This is truly heavenly._ Mycroft was falling into a boneless state of relaxation under Gregory’s hands. Tensions he hadn’t even been aware of began to melt away, despite the aches and the very occasional spike of pain as a particularly sensitive patch was manipulated. Greg was very intuitive regarding his soft noises and kept asking if Mycroft was alright when he touched places that elicited a pained response. His care was quite moving, Mycroft realised. Wistfully, Mycroft imagined being cared for so completely in other areas of his life. He was quite glad Gregory could not see his face right there and then.

Greg swept his hands across Mycroft’s shoulder muscles, easing into the tissues and falling into a rhythm with the strokes he was using. He was about to go further when he remembered they had a decision to make.

“Mycroft?”

“Mmm?” 

“You want me to go further? I said I would only do your shoulders and neck to start with and then we would reassess. So what do you want me to do? Your choice.”

“I am...more than happy for you to do more. If you wish to. I don’t want to press you, but this is...honestly, this is incredible.” Greg laughed at the honesty.

“Okay then, but it means taking your boxers off. You okay with that?”

“Yes, fine. Although…how? It might be a little difficult…”

“I’ll help.” Greg reached beneath the towel and grasped the waistband of Mycroft’s boxer briefs and tugged. Obligingly, Mycroft lifted slightly and allowed Greg to tug his pants off.

Mycroft actually felt rather liberated, allowing the man to divest him of this last layer of protection. And in no way did he feel vulnerable, not with Gregory. He relaxed back, aware that he was now rather exposed but for the towel, but he was both interested and eager for Greg to work his magic. He was not disappointed.

Now he had full access to that long back, Greg began in earnest, adding more oil, and sweeping his hands down all the way from shoulder to buttocks and back, skimming down Mycroft’s ribs and flanks and pushing up either side of his spine, again falling into an almost hypnotic rhythm. Mycroft nearly squeaked when he felt strong thumbs digging into the gluteal muscles of his bum. _Ow, that was… unexpected._ He had no clue he was so tense there. One’s arse was for sitting on, after all, and he obviously wasn’t au fait with the effects of bad posture on his rear.Mycroft felt a little embarrassed about having repeatedly said to Gregory that his back was fine, when it most obviously wasn’t. 

_Oh...Oh dear… that was an unexpected side effect he had not anticipated…_

“Turn over…” _Oh, God, no. Not right now… please…_ “Mycroft? You okay there? Not fallen asleep?”

“No, no. My apologies… do you think I might just...stay here a while...just…” He shifted his hips a little, trying to ease the pressure. “I find I am... a little inconvenienced…”

 _Ah, okay._ Greg grinned. _Not entirely unexpected side effect on some people. Must have been enjoying it then_. To save embarrassment, Greg patted Mycroft’s shoulder and said, “Of course. Stay there a while. Let me know when you’re ready.”

 _Bless the man’s empathy again. At least he was quick on the uptake there._ Mycroft relaxed, and with it, his unwelcome erection deflated a little. Well, it wasn’t exactly unwelcome, just inappropriately timed. Mycroft sighed, and schooled his thoughts, and wondered how he could face the man now…

“There you go, carefully, that’s it.” Greg helped Mycroft to turn onto his back, making sure that the towel stayed in place to protect Mycroft's dignity and keep his upper body warm as well. “Now, I can rack the back of this thing up a bit if you like, so you can sit up a bit while I deal with your leg muscles.” 

“I feel I should apologise…”

“Why? Oh, no, don’t worry. Common reaction, honestly. I’m used to that. Maybe should have been a bit less conscientious on your bum muscles.” He grinned that cheeky grin again which had Mycroft’s stomach tie itself in fluttery knots. _Damn it all, I am not some teen with a crush._ Mycroft was annoyed at himself, but he sat dutifully and watched as Gregory worked on his thighs and calves. Despite those hands coming perilously close to his groin on more than one occasion, Mycroft managed to avoid another anatomical faux pas and closed his eyes, doing his best to enjoy the ministrations. 

“I should warn you, my toes are a little ticklish.”

“Need firm handling then,” Greg answered, seriously. 

“No handling at all, I fear.”

“Wait and see.” In fact, Greg’s fingers were firm and handled his toes with nearly no tickle at all. “See,” he said, “a firm grip can work wonders.”

“Yes, I see.” It took Mycroft too long, in his opinion, to realise Greg was flirting with him again. He ignored it, and tried to behave as though it hadn’t happened, rather than admit to being slow on the uptake. 

Mycroft was disappointed that his session was obviously coming to a close. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. He was startled therefore when fingers pressed into his scalp, skillfully massaging the pressure points and further relaxing him. He felt Greg’s fingers stroke over his cheekbones, smoothing along his brow, under his eyes, down his nose, across his chin. He had never had a facial before, and if this was anything to go by he has missed out there. This was...rejuvenating. 

This time when Greg stopped, he really had finished. It was late, and he was at work the following day. He handed a glass of water to Mycroft and told him to sip it, slowly. The man looked more relaxed than he had ever seen him.

“How do you feel?”

Mycroft sighed, deeply. “Much restored, thank you. I believe my stress levels have considerably lowered.”

“Good, well, you need to stay there for a while. Don’t move too soon or too quickly. Okay? In fact, let me clean up, pack my stuff, then we’ll have you up and on your feet. With my help. Just enjoy the feeling for a mo.”

“But I feel fine.”

“Trust me, Mycroft. Been doing this a long time. Clients react differently, but you’re new, so I have no clue how you’ll react. Better safe than sorry. Don’t want you going all wobbly because you tried to take it too fast. Okay?”

“Very well. I bow to your judgement.”

“Good. Drink your water.” Mycroft sipped the water while Greg went to wash his hands, and then watched as Greg tidied up and packed his stuff away around him. He was helped into his dressing gown again, and Greg lent him an arm as support to alight from the couch. When Greg was certain he wasn’t going to faint, or stumble, or wobble, he let go and folded his couch up again into its travelling position.

“Well, we’ll have to do this again sometime.” 

“Most certainly. It was...not how I thought it would be, I admit. Much less intimidating. Thank you, Gregory.” 

“Pleasure.” Greg glanced at Mycroft’s disheveled appearance. “You might want to shower before bed, get the excess oil off. Just don’t make it too hot, okay? I’m afraid I mussed your hair a bit…”

Mycroft glanced at himself in the mirror and smiled. “I agree. I feel thoroughly _mussed_ , as you put it.”

“Sorry it nearly went tits up earlier and put us late. The lads get a bit over enthusiastic no matter what I say and the conditions out there were a bit not good. Might have known something would happen to put the mockers on timing.”

“Well, no harm done.”

“Yeah, look, I’m going to pass on supper. Afraid I’ve got a really early start…”

“I cannot offer you a nightcap before you go? Tea, coffee?”

“Actually, that would be nice but no, I’d best not. My meeting is with the Chief Super. Need my sleep.”

“A pity but I do understand. I’ll call Jeremy to take you home.”

“I can get a cab…”

“Nonsense. Jeremy is on duty all night. You may as well avail yourself of his services. I won’t hear of you catching a cab at this hour. Goodnight, Gregory, and thank you. Um… you have not mentioned a figure?”

“Figure?”

“What do I owe you?”

“Oh, Mycroft, no, nothing!” Greg assured. “Really, this was...well, I wanted to. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Are you sure? I mean, are your services not remunerated for your work at the football club?”

“Hell, no. I volunteer. It’s a hobby. Look, Mycroft, this was…a favour for a friend, if you like. Don’t need paying. If you want, take me to dinner again. That was nice, I enjoyed it, but that’s all I need. Don’t even need that really. It was a pleasure. Glad to help a bit.” 

Once again, Mycroft was struck by Gregory’s selflessness. “Dinner it is then, and I shall not take no for an answer. I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay then. I’ll see you soon.”

Mycroft watched as Greg got into the waiting car and waited until the lights had disappeared around the corner before going inside and shutting the door, a thoughtful expression in place. 


	6. Checkmate?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally... well, almost...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long. RL again.

**Can you make dinner tomorrow night, 7 for 7.30? Smart casual. Will send car. MH**

_Smart casual, eh?_ Greg stared at the text and wondered. _Where has Mycroft found that warrants smart casual? And tomorrow night?_ Greg was sure he could make it, the question was, did he want to? He was bone tired, and it had been a week since _The Massage_ , as his brain had taken to referring to it. It required capitals, and italics for emphasis, even in his mind. God knew he might not get another chance… He had frankly been rather surprised that Mycroft had allowed the interaction, especially since it had gone rather further than Greg had been hoping.

He yawned mightily, effectively cutting through his revery. Greg and his team had just wound up a case, he had finally signed off on the files and they had been forwarded to Crown Prosecution, and he was looking forward to some time off. He had been thinking of just jumping a train and heading west for a while, seeing his cousin and her family Somerset. She had been pestering him to go, to see her newest grandchild, barely a month old. He would have to get it something nice, and take her something too, and meet Colin, her new husband. Like himself, Catriona had been divorced, but she at least had been lucky the second time around. He could do with taking their dog out for some long solitary walks on the beach, to recharge his batteries.

 _So… Dinner tomorrow?_ Greg sighed and supposed that he could head off the day after, he was just...bloody tired, and somewhat demoralized, despite the successful closing of a case. Successful was a moot point. It was highly likely that the bastard would get off, despite their hard work. _Ah well, no longer my problem. Time to step back and let due process take over_.

_**Not sure. Tired. Just wrapped a case. Where did you have in mind? GL** _

Mycroft looked at the terse reply. _Not good. Gregory is obviously not in a receptive state of mind._ He wondered at the case they had been working on and did a bit of investigative work of his own, accessing the files using his MI6 clearance. It looked at first glance that despite sterling work on behalf of Gregory and his team that their suspect might walk free. _The man is clearly guilty,_ Mycroft thought. Greg and his people had managed to arrest the right person, but he had powerful friends… Mycroft read through the whole case notes, then buzzed his assistant.

“Anthea, a word, if you please.” She came into his office and closed the door. 

“Sir?”

Mycroft slid a file over to her. “The Dobson case, a robbery gone bad in Lambeth last November. Inspector Lestrade and his team worked on it, but it looks as though the outcome might not be cut and dried. Would you find someone to look into it for me? I fear it might have a bearing on raising money for terrorist activity. Please talk to Q branch about putting an overwatch in place, and mark it Priority One please, referral from this office.”

“Certainly, sir. Are we looking for evidence, or embedding it?”

“See what you find. Seems eminently guilty to me, without embedding any more on him, but you know how these things are. Crown Prosecution agrees there is a solid case but there are a few gaps. Close those gaps. I leave it to your discretion as to the method you employ.”

“Very well, sir. I shall instruct Q branch to forward evidence to CPS. Would you like me to run it past CTC*?”

“Give them an overview, by all means.”

“Very well, sir. Consider it done.” She swept out the door with the file of information he had printed off. 

Mycroft watched her go. Not for the first time did he consider that if the double O’s were blunt instruments, she was definitely a scalpel. God help anyone who got in her way. He had seen her rebuff the advances of more than one presumptive Double O, and enjoyed every minute. She was a woman after his own heart and a worthy successor. Alicia Smallwood liked her as well, and often found an excuse to work with her. Mycroft knew he would have to try to put more responsibility her way, give her more rein to work her own magic, more projects of her own. A small team of her own making maybe? She was overdue at least one assistant, and a raise. He did not want Smallwood to woo her away. Despite his faith in Anthea’s loyalty it was Lady Smallwood he didn’t trust. Mycroft nurtured the seeds of his idea, and considered the implications; more time to himself, early retirement maybe, leisure time that required filling. 

Remembering he had not replied to Greg’s text, he quickly sent a message.

**Apologies. Stuck in a meeting. Found a new Greek place in a secluded location. Their swordfish is beyond words. MH**

Greg looked at the glowing report for this new venue. Okay, Greek he could live with. Olives and ouzo, which wasn’t a bad combo when taken in context. Okay then. He fired off a new text.

**You had me when you said ‘secluded’. Elaborate on ‘smart casual’ please? See u @ 7?**

He wondered at his own shorthand. Mycroft almost never used shorthand for anything. Greg grinned. _Stuffy, pompous, overbearing, intellectual Git._ He ran a hand over his face, exasperated. _Good looking, gorgeously dressed, actually generous in his own way, aristocratic, attentive Git, more’s the pity...Sexy bastard too._

**Smart casual = no jeans or trainers, but no requirement for a tie. 7 it is. I shall send a car. MH**

_What am I, mad?_ Greg didn’t know. Getting involved like this was potential career suicide. _Or a fast track up the ladder_ , he considered. Which was equally to be avoided, really. Nobody liked a person who slept his way to the top, and it would be very hard to get much higher than Mycroft Holmes. The man had Priority Ultra Clearance, for the Gods’ own sakes. _Who the fuck has that, anyway?_ Mycroft Holmes was on a very high rung up the hierarchical ladder on some lofty Governmental erie somewhere by all counts. Images of ruffled feathers came to mind and he allowed himself a wry smile, but Greg Lestrade had managed to get to where he was by his own hard work and intelligence, thank you very much, and it was going to stay that way. 

Ah well, he needed to choose something to wear. _So, casual. No tie needed but jeans and trainers were too casual. Okay then. Polo shirt? Maybe. Oh, this. This is much better. Collarless linen grandad shirt, open at the neck. That might do very well, if it doesn’t make me look as old as the grandad it was named after. Smart, though, when paired with a linen jacket. Let’s go for those very smart knife pleat trousers, the dark grey charcoal ones that fit the bum nicely… okay, there we go, one smart casual outfit that might make Mycroft think…_

**0000000000000**

The restaurant was good, and quiet, and intimate, with a menu to die for. Yes, the dress code was casual, but honestly, this wasn’t secluded as much as _exclusive_. Mycroft had given him a very appreciative look when the car had arrived to pick him up, obviously cataloging his assets. _Well, those assets might be yours, boy, if you play your cards right…_

Mycroft was surprised when he arrived to pick Greg up. Of all the looks that Greg might have adopted, he had not anticipated this. A fine collarless linen shirt barely hid the body beneath it, and a bit of chest hair, dark and enticing, peeked through the open neck. This was a man who knew clothes; not in the pretentious way some people had (and he included himself in that statement) but just...in a sartorial awareness of what fit him and complimented his colouring. Mycroft was pleasantly surprised. He’d had no idea that Gregory was so accomplished. It was a far cry from his work-a-day outfits that looked appalling but allowed him to blend in, chameleon-like, to his surroundings. Nobody found Inspector Lestrade out of place in his daily life; he fitted into his office or a pub or a supermarket with equal ease, and he blended in when visiting witnesses in their homes, wherever those might be. His work-a-day clothes allowed the people who came into contact with him to find him normal and ordinary, approachable if required. He was underestimated, if anything. It was his manner that made him intimidating or reassuring, depending on the situation.

“This is...an amazing place, Myc. You do know how to pick ‘em.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft smiled slightly at the praise. He wasn’t use to genuine praise and he soaked it up like a sponge. He was still careful not to let how much it pleased him to show through though. After all, it wouldn’t do to look too eager. “I forgot about this place in truth, Anthea had to remind me. It is quite a while since I came. I think it has actually improved over that time. I am pleased to note that the swordfish is still perfect.”

“Give us a bite?” 

“Pardon?”

“Well...I chose the veal. And it’s amazing but...never had swordfish.” 

Mycroft had been about to object but Gregory had turned those appealing eyes on him, and… _damn it all,_ Mycroft found himself powerless to resist. He broke off a bit of the fish onto his fork and offered it across. _Damn the man again_ , he took the morsel directly off the fork into his mouth, with a grin… Delicately done too. He was flirting, Mycroft realized, watching carefully. Flirting and provocative. Unfortunately, Mycroft could feel himself blushing. 

Greg was grinning, helplessly. Mycroft had fallen for his approach, the puppy eyes, the whole thing. He felt shameless, and unrepentant. He wanted to flirt, and to push a little, and to… well, whatever Mycroft would allow. And Greg was nothing if not aware how much Mycroft was allowing him to get away with. Not for just anyone would Mycroft have allowed the shortening of his name. Not for just anybody would Mycroft have shared, actually shared his damned food! At least, Greg hoped not. Greg hoped what they had, whatever it was, was special. Theirs. If they had anything, which was still debatable. Okay then… Time to move things on. Next level, here we come.

“Mycroft…?”

“Yes, Gregory?”

“Would you mind...could we have coffee at yours...or mine, if you’d prefer?” 

“Certainly, Gregory. Why? Are you quite alright?”

“Yeah, I guess, but...well...I _am_ tired, and I was figuring on heading to the West Country tomorrow.”

“Really? A holiday?”

“Of sorts. I’ve just finished a case, and I have some days off. My cousin, Catriona, she's been asking when I could go over, and I figured now was as good a time as any.”

“An admirable use of your time, Gregory. We all need to recharge the batteries now and again, and family is important, after all. Would it be presumptuous of me to invite myself back to yours tonight? No long trip home for you then.”

“Of course not. I like it when you visit my pad…”

“Pad? How very... _1960s_ of you?” Mycroft was smiling as he spoke. There was something comfortable in their exchange. Comfortable and relaxing. Honest. Two people who enjoyed each other’s company, and were comfortable in the space. He knew Gregory felt it too, and was somewhat happy in that realization.

Greg knew his flat was at least tidy. He had anticipated this. The laundry had been done, and folded, and put away. The kitchen was clean, and he had cleaned his coffee maker, his kettle (well, bought a new one actually), and the floor tiles. He had tidied away the old newspapers, magazines and periodicals onto a shelf, vacuumed everywhere, and even dusted. Mrs Hudson would have been proud. 

Mycroft gave no appreciable reaction when they arrived, it wasn't as if he'd never been before after all. In fact he simply entered, and said little, while Greg took his coat, and went to fire up the coffee maker, and filled a kettle, in case Mycroft wanted tea. “Um… how do you feel about rose tea?” Greg asked.

“Rose tea? Would that be tea made from or flavoured with roses?”

“Made with. Hellishly expensive but it tastes like Turkish Delight. I remember you said you liked Turkish Delight. It’s amazing if you’d like to try some. Delicate, but worth it, in my humble opinion.”

“I am now curious as to its properties. Where did you get it?” Mycroft was also touched that Greg had obviously remembered their previous conversation.

“Tea Palace in Covent Garden, amazing place for teas. You can have coffee if you prefer though.”

“I am agog with anticipation. You have more than peaked my interest concerning the rose tea.”

“Apparently it’s a white tea, White Peony with Rosebuds, and white tea only grows in the…” Greg glanced at the information on the packet, “...the Fujian province in China, picked for only a few weeks every year.” 

“Then let us try that. It sounds rather exclusive.”

“I also,” Greg hesitated for the sake of anticipation, “got some organic rose grey, with you in mind. It’s a blend of earl grey and roses. We could try that another time, maybe, because I know you like Earl Grey but I also know you like trying new things.”

“I confess that I do, occasionally, like to explore new ground. Although a blend of Earl Grey and roses would not have been on my list, I had no idea such a thing existed, and considering my love of Turkish Delight, that fact surprises me.” 

"I doubt much escapes you," Greg said with a smile as he got out his gran’s china tea cups. This warranted something more than a simple mug. He was aware of Mycroft watching him but despite his last statement, he fervently hoped he had missed the surreptitious wiping in case of dust (considering he rarely if ever used _china_ cups, never mind the saucers). Greg correctly put everything on a proper tray; two cups and saucers, teaspoons, a strainer and the small sugar bowl. Milk was not an option with this tea. 

Kettle boiled, he made the brew in his one and only tea pot (his Gran’s again, it matched the tea set) and left it to steep. Carrying the tray to the coffee table with due ceremony, he sat down on the sofa. “So, Mycroft, I enjoyed tonight. Nice place.” 

“Yes, I agree. As I pointed out, I had forgotten it until Anthea reminded me of it’s casual nature. It seemed the perfect place for us both to relax.”

“Great food too.”

“Another major point in its favour.” Mycroft was smiling. “After all, substandard food does somewhat kill the atmosphere.” Greg couldn’t help but smile at that as well. 

“That it does,” he agreed, readily. “You do have good taste, it has to be said.”

“Why, thank you, Gregory. I was... _impressed_ by your wardrobe choices this evening, if I may be so bold.” 

_If I may be so bold? Mycroft sounds like a regency heroine,_ Greg thought with a grin. _Is it wrong for a mature man to preen, given such praise? I’ve_ impressed _Mycroft Holmes? Impressed a man known to be almost impossible to impress. Surely that deserves a measure of preening?_ _Although_ …Here was an opportunity if ever Greg saw one.

“Mycroft…”

“Gregory?”

“Would you be Mother?” Greg indicated the tea tray. For a heartbeat, Mycroft stared at him, and it crossed Greg’s mind that he might have miscalculated, but then Mycroft started to laugh. Greg joined in, their mirth a happy thing in Greg’s heart.

“You very devil, Gregory. You heard about the Palace Incident, then?”

“In lurid detail, from John. Sorry, love, but...too good a chance to miss. Shit, I didn’t upset you, though…?”

“Not in the least. My youngest brother being bratty in the most inappropriate of high places only usually serves to strengthen the sympathy they all have for me. He sometimes does it deliberately, you know. It’s his way of perversely strengthening my...position, as it were. I am known to be long suffering.”

“He’s an arse sometimes but honestly, he loves you, in his own way. When we thought you might be in danger that time…”

“What time?” Mycroft frowned.

“Sherlock got a message to say you were hurt. It was Moriarty, messing with him. Until Sherlock called you, and heard your voice, he was in a tailspin, Mycroft. Really. Did you not know that?”

“He has never shared that incident with me, no.”

“I remember he was all arsey on the phone so you wouldn’t know, and he made me promise not to tell you, but...well, honestly, it doesn’t matter now, really. I mean, Moriarty is dead and Sherlock is free of it all. He does care about you, Myc. I know he does. I saw him in a fritz over that.”

“That is...interesting.”

“Gods, don’t tell him I told you, please. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I promise, Gregory. He shall not hear of it from me.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, let us partake of this tea, shall we? Of course I will be ‘mother’.” Mycroft took up the pot and poured the tea through the strainer over each cup, fragrant steam wafting to the men’s noses as he did so. “Rather soothing, I have to admit. It is reminiscent of the rose garden at home.” 

“If you’d left the leaves in, I could have tried reading your fortune.”

“Heavens, Gregory, please tell me you do not subscribe to that old wives tale?” The horror in Mycroft’s voice made Greg smile again.

“Not exactly. My Gran used to though. She read them for me when I was 16, and she wouldn’t tell me what she saw, fumbled it because mum was listening.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Told me afterward that she knew.”

“Knew? About what? Do not leave me in suspense now, Gregory, please.”

“It’s silly, really. I mean, she might have picked up on other cues, but I’d thought I’d been really careful, you know? I mean I never said anything to indicate I might be that way, I really didn’t even know myself for sure. She was a wily old bird, though. Loved her to bits even though she was liable to clip you round the ear as hug you.”

“She sounds much like one of our nannies. Candice was a lovely woman, but we never risked her wrath. I was at once terrified and besotted…” Mycroft smiled with reminiscence and then cleared his throat. "Well, as besotted as I ever could be about a woman, which was with a ten year old's understanding."

“Yeah, well, I was visiting one day, mum and I went together to see her, and we had tea, and Gran served it in her proper china, which was odd for her. Mum made some comment about us being special. When I finished mine, Gran picked up my cup, swirled the dregs around, and put it back on the saucer upside down. Then she picked it up again and looked at it, and looked at me, then looked back at the cup, and then at me, and gave mum a quick glance, then she said I would achieve my ambitions, despite other people’s misgivings. Afterwards, when mum was washing up, Gran took me aside and told me she knew about me being bisexual, the leaves had revealed I was split in two where my love life was concerned, and that it was alright by her, and if I needed to talk, I should come chat to her…” Greg shrugged. “I dunno, maybe she thought she’d seen something, but maybe I gave it away, but if I did I have no idea how. I was terrified mum would find out. I was very, very careful not to say or do anything that might lead them to find out. It wasn’t a forgiving time when I was 16…” Greg frowned. “I was really not sure about anything, least of all my sexuality. I liked both boys and girls, and I wasn’t sure why. It was my Gran who told me about it, and that it was okay, and that I wasn’t to worry.” 

“Your grandmother sounds like a good person.”

“Oh, she was. Intelligent, kind, funny, but you didn’t mess with her.”

“So, she helped you understand yourself?”

“Yeah, whether or not it was the tealeaves, doesn’t matter really.” 

“Is that why you married a woman?”

“I dunno really. I’ve often asked myself if that was why the wife and I were never really happy, but that would be a lie. We were, once. In the beginning, we loved each other enough to get married. Asked myself a hundred times what happened but I’ll probably drive myself nuts wondering. Fact is, we drifted apart until she looked elsewhere. Something went wrong, and...honestly, I _am_ worried it could happen again.” Greg watched as Mycroft crossed his elegantly clad legs and leaned back, taking a thoughtful sip from his cup. He couldn’t help but let his mind wander, wondering exactly what those lips would feel like against his own. 

“Of course you are worried about repetition, Gregory,” Mycroft said in his best reassuring manner. “That is a natural human trait. We worry about what went before, we are afraid that past patterns of behaviour will continue to occur again and again, ad infinitum. Eminently understandable. However, you should try to learn from them but do not let those worries stop you doing something just because something _might_ happen. It is equally likely it might not, and as such you would never forgive yourself if you decided not to... _jump_ , as it were.”

“Fact is…” Greg paused, eyes lifting to meet Mycroft’s. “I do want to... _jump_ …”

Mycroft regarded him with curiosity. “You know,” he said carefully, “this tea is really exquisite.”

“Damn the tea, Mycroft!” Greg was on his feet. He closed the distance between them in two short strides, and reached down to remove the cup from the man’s hand. He placed it on the side table and then leaned down into Mycroft’s personal space, hands on the back of the sofa, either side of Mycroft’s head, and whispered huskily, “This isn’t a jump, Mycroft, this is a leap of faith.” Greg watched Mycroft’s pupils dilate and felt an answering rush of heat to his groin. “I’m done waiting,” he murmured, voice gone husky and dark. “I’m not a boy any more, Mycroft. I accepted who I am years ago, and what’s more, I know what I want.”

“And what would that be, Gregory?” Mycroft purred.

“You, Mycroft. In my bed, under me, naked…” Greg paused. “I’m just not convinced yet that you want the same.”

“Pish, Gregory.” Mycroft’s smile was seductive, his eyes gone dark. “May I suggest that you observe the signs? I am under no illusion that you already know my feelings…” 

“In that case…” Greg pushed back, drawing himself upright. He reached down with a hand that was, in his opinion, remarkably steady, offering it to Mycroft. Who took it, long cool fingers wrapping over his own warm ones. 

Mycroft allowed himself to be pulled to his feet with a strength which was rather...tempting. When aroused, Gregory had the grace of a big cat; powerful and sensual. He felt his heart rate quicken in anticipation and let himself be guided out of the room.


	7. Is This The Real Life, Is This Just Fantasy...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not a dream...

This was not a dream. Mycroft found himself having to snap out of the dreamlike haze he was in, waiting any moment for the bubble to burst and drag him back to cold hard reality. However, the moment never came, and Gregory’s hand was still warm in his own, and those eyes were still possessively fixed on his. Reality, it seemed, had taken a sideways shift, and it looked as if all Mycroft’s birthdays had arrived at once. 

There was no preamble. It was as if Gregory was done waiting, for anything. 

He lead Mycroft into his bedroom, a surprisingly neat room done out in warm restful colours, as easy on the eyes as it’s occupant. Mycroft was fleetingly aware of their backdrop of curtains drawn across the window like the grand drapes across a proscenium arch, the world outside shut away. This theatre had no audience, however, no one waiting in the wings clamouring for attention, nobody in the stalls impatient for their show to begin. In this inner sanctum privacy was thrown around them like a comforting blanket, and the quietude was a welcome balm. Greg gently encouraged Mycroft to sit down on the bed and then stood back, and Mycroft could only watch mesmerised as the man took his sweet time over undressing, unfastening each button with a measured pace, his shirt falling open to reveal a dusting of dark chest hair. He also had a surprisingly flat stomach for a man his age, and skin that Mycroft’s fingers ached to touch. All the while Gregory’s eyes were on Mycroft, gaging his reactions, gratified by what he saw if his expression was anything to judge. 

Greg disrobed, eyes on the man sitting in front of him as he did so. He paused, put his head on one side and smiled. “You okay there?”

“I’m… fine…” The words were soft, murmured breathlessly.

“Don’t worry, love,” Greg urged. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“On the contrary, Gregory. I have lots of things to worry about.”

Greg laughed. “I hope none of them are to do with National Security.”

Mycroft chuckled. “God forbid. I would not sully our liaison with external concerns. However…”

“However?” 

“I find your proximity is….a little unnerving.”

“Okay, but why worry? I want to get closer than this, you know.” 

“You know that I...I am not used to such...very close proximity. Intimate acts are not familiar territory, despite my encouragement of your...advances. I simply do not wish to disappoint you.”

“Why would you?” 

“Well...I...Because…”

“Mycroft, just take it steady, and relax. Nothing you do could disappoint me. I’ve seen you naked, remember? I happen to think that you’re lovely. Really.”

“Lovely? Your choice of descriptives is unusual.”

“Why? You have gorgeous skin, you know? And you have freckles. Who doesn’t love freckles?” Greg leaned in and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s, exploring gently. With a soft gasp, Mycroft’s mouth opened and Greg took advantage, sliding his tongue along his lover's. 

Greg pulled back reluctantly. “Okay, you’re wearing too many clothes, love, so let’s get you out of some of them, shall we?” He reached to unfasten buttons, to slide his fingers beneath layers of cloth, to slip silk and fine wool off shoulders. Bit by bit the body of his lover was revealed to his eyes, and at last, Mycroft was laid bare before him. “Do you even know how gorgeous you are?” Greg murmured, appreciatively.

“Me?” It emerged as an embarrassed croak.

“As I said earlier, freckles.” Greg leaned in again and pressed his lips to a bare shoulder, placing a trail of soft kisses up Mycroft’s neck to his ear, which he trailed his tongue over, hearing more soft gasps, breathy inarticulate murmurs, and soft moans. Those noises went straight to Greg’s cock, and he was hard by the time he drew back to finish undressing himself. 

A little later, Mycroft found himself lying on his back while warm hands slid firmly over his skin, running along his ribs and mapping each muscle and bone, teasing the knots of tension out of his body until he was little more than putty in Gregory’s hands. It wasn’t like his fantasy. This was so much better. _This is real, this is…Oh._

“I want you to relax for me, love, you’re too tense,” Greg instructed gently. “Can you do that?”

“I...can try…” Mycroft realised he was panting slightly. “I...can’t promise…”

“Just do your best.” Greg encouraged, his strong hands doing indescribable things to the muscles of Mycroft’s thighs. “You know, you are gorgeous, Mycroft,” Greg’s voice whispered reverently in his ear, husky with desire and arousal. “All that creamy skin...all mine. Is this what you want, Mycroft? My skin against yours, my hands all over you?”

“Yes...oh, yes…Oh, Gregory…” _Damn it all, I really do sound like a teenager with a crush, not a mature man in an important job, with gravitas and dignity and… oh, hang dignity, this really is heavenly, and this isn’t fantasy._ Greg in reality was a solid heat against him, breath warm against his skin, raising goosebumps.

“Turn over, let me try something.” 

Mycroft complied, bowing to the man’s greater experience. Soon, capable fingers began to work deeply into his muscles, teasing and relaxing him, and always that husky voice in his ear, praising him, encouraging him, telling him how beautiful, how responsive he was. Mycroft basked in the glow, enjoyed the admiration and care that was being lavished on him as the hands worked lower and lower and a sudden tension visited a rather more appropriate part of his anatomy… This time, his imagination did not need to supply any details. Gregory was here, now, and the husky chuckle in his ear was so much better in real life. And no Anthea to divert or interrupt him. They were just the two of them, together in Gregory’s bedroom. When Mycroft opened his eyes, he found Gregory looking at him, cheeky grin in place, and Mycroft felt himself falling hard. 

Greg gave him no time to dwell on anything, again encouraging him to relax, and then… _Oh, Holy God_ … Greg’s hands started to massage… _there._

”Always wanted to try a little tantra,” Greg said, hands working over Mycroft’s genitals with smooth, rhythmic strokes. He set a slow rhythm, aware of the change in Mycroft's breathing.

“I have heard about...such practices...but...Oh, God....” Mycroft murmured and Greg chuckled at the response. “It seems that nothing I read...comes close to the reality…” 

"Yeah, well, this is less about the goal and more about the journey. It's about feeling and experiencing and just letting go. Communicate with me though, Mycroft. Please tell me if you feel uncomfortable for any reason, or if you have any pain, or anything, really. Just...I want this to be good for you, you know, but I am not a mind reader. Keep me in the loop, okay?" He saw Mycroft nod and watched the man's eyes slide closed again. "Good. Now let's just see where this leads us."

Greg worked his magic across Mycroft's body, letting his hands wander, taking pleasure in giving pleasure. Greg was enjoying himself, observing how Mycroft responded to his touch, when he saw the signs. Mycroft’s breathing changed and took on an air of urgency as he began to pant, and his body tensed again. A long drawn out “Ooooohhhhh…” was followed by the man’s back arching, his balls drawing up and his long fingers flexing in the sheets. Mycroft’s eyes flew wide in surprise as his orgasm crashed over him, holding him in its grasp for much longer than it ever had before. 

When he finally opened his eyes again, once his heart had ceased to try jumping out of his chest, it was to see Gregory grinning at him like a cat that got to the cream. Mycroft’s heart lurched again, and his stomach flipped a little. If only he could wake every morning to that smile, to spend every possible moment of the rest of his life with this man who for some inexplicable reason found Mycroft so desirable? 

In anyone else, Mycroft would question motives, would suspect subterfuge, an ulterior motive in accessing his power and money. Yet Gregory was not like that. He was honourable, and trustworthy. He seemed to want nothing, and took nothing. He was not needy for Mycroft’s attention, he was not the type to text every ten minutes and get annoyed when Mycroft didn’t reply. Gregory was a man of integrity and charm, with bags of his own confidence. This, however, was not rational, not measured, not studied or pondered upon. Mycroft knew he was allowing sentiment to get in the way of his judgement again, allowing his heart to govern his head, and this was...not the way it should be. There were issues and concerns and...a miriad of reasons why this was a bad idea, why they should not do this. He should not go down this path...and yet… 

And yet…

Gregory cared. He was kind, compassionate, gentle, strong. The policeman was everything Mycroft had ever in his youthful heart imagined a partner should be. It was still a bad idea. The odds were against them. The man was damaged. He had a failed marriage behind him, a career as a policeman that wasn’t particularly outstanding or immaculate, and he was a common man who loved a pint at his local and his football… He did not move in the circles that Mycroft managed to navigate with ease every day. He had no idea how to walk the corridors of power or to operate under the protocols demanded by those who moved about The Palace. Gregory was an ordinary person. None of this should work… 

And yet…

And yet…

Mycroft wondered whether it could. He dared to allow himself to hope, kept his concerns to himself, and worried. 


	8. If I Could Put Time In a Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there folks. Apologies for the hiatus... RL gets in the way again.

**Time in a Bottle**

If I could make days last forever

If words could make wishes come true

I'd save every day like a treasure and then

Again, I would spend them with you

But there never seems to be enough time

To do the things you want to do, once you find them

I've looked around enough to know

That you're the one I want to go through time with

**Jim Croce**

**Time in a Bottle**

Mycroft spent the next week distracting himself from thoughts of Gregory by working harder than usual. If Anthea noticed she was careful not to say anything but kept watch in case her boss started to look as if he might be taking too much on. He went home tired and slept, if not completely soundly, for at least eight hours straight. He was not content, but it would have to do. If he allowed himself to consider the Detective Inspector it would be fatal. He was on the edge of becoming besotted, and that simply would not do. 

Greg went to work wondering what had gone wrong. It looked as if Mycroft was studiously ignoring his texts, his voicemails, and completely blocking his invitations. He texted Mycroft the day after their (extremely successful in Greg’s opinion) liaison with an invitation to dinner at a small French place he had found off the main grid but which produced very good food reminiscent of his Grand-mère’s cooking. He wanted to share it with someone and he was almost giddy with anticipation. That person should be Mycroft. 

At four that afternoon, there was still no answer. Greg left a voicemail. He went to a late meeting with his Chief Super, sat through the man droning on about some up-coming initiative, the contents of which escaped him but Greg heard the words ‘community’ and ‘awareness’ and 'Mayor of London's approval' and recognized a photo-op when he heard one as well as a copious amount of spin from the Met’s Press Bureau. It also had the man’s ego plastered all over it. Greg couldn’t wait to get home, but as he left, he checked his phone to find there was still no reply. That evening, he made himself an indifferent meal in his microwave and put the telly on, catching the last quarter of the match and resisting the urge to check his phone every five minutes. Disappointed, he went to bed early, bored with waiting. No text materialized. 

**I still want you to come to dinner with me, The Pearl Of Provence, 7.30 Friday night? I am off for the weekend and I hoped we could spend some time together.**

**Mycroft, really no idea what’s happening. Let me know, either way. If you don’t fancy it, that’s fine. GL**

**Mycroft? You okay? GL**

**Is anything wrong? GL**

**Mycroft?**

Greg stared at his phone and frowned. Saturday morning had dawned and there was still no answer. He rose from his bed, got showered and dressed feeling disappointed and puzzled. Was Mycroft out of the country and had failed to tell him? Greg couldn't imagine that Mycroft Holmes did not possess a phone that he could use anywhere in the world though. No matter where he was those messages should have reached him. After much personal deliberation, because honestly he did not really want to consult with Sherlock on matters pertaining to his brother, Greg nevertheless decided to swing by Baker Street to see if Sherlock could throw any light on where Mycroft might be. He had no idea what else to do.

There was nobody there. Not even Mrs Hudson to open the door for him. Greg tried not to worry, he really did, but sometimes being a police officer meant that his imagination got the better of him. He tried to be pragmatic, got his phone out and texted first John Watson and then Sherlock. 

**Where is everybody? GL**

His phone rang, to his relief, seconds later. 

“Hello, Mate, what’s up?”

“John? Where the Hell is everybody?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“I’m at 221b. Where are you?”

“Um...the zoo. Sherlock has a case for a private client, and it entails studying lizards for some reason. I have no idea. I’m just following him around at the moment. He says he can’t do without me, but you know the score. I’m not really doing much to be honest.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“Hudders is visiting her sister,” Greg heard Sherlock’s muffled voice over the microphone, followed by a hissed, “What on earth does he want, John? We're busy.”

“Yeah, well, about that. At present you're the one that's busy, I’m just tagging along. Greg, mate, what do you need? You got a case for Sherlock?”

“No, actually...Look, don’t mind me, it can wait.”

“Greg?” There was a brief and somewhat irritable exchange with Sherlock and the sound of a door closing rather forcefully. “It’s okay, Greg, he can do his own thing without me for the moment. Right, now, what’s wrong?” 

Greg recognized the soldier in the voice John was using. Captain Watson had made an appearance, it seemed.

“Okay, I wondered if you or himself know what's up with Mycroft?”

“Nothing, so far as I know, why?”

“He...he’s not answering my texts.”

“You have his number? I mean, his personal number, not the one his secretary always answers?”

“Yes, and he’s not answering.”

“Why do you…? No, don’t answer that. None of my business. Well, I have no idea where he is. He’s not visited us for a while, but we don’t know his everyday movements anyway, sorry. Too low down the pecking order to be told what the Great Mycroft Holmes does with his time. What’s your concern though?”

“He’s just not answering my texts.”

“You tried calling?”

“Voicemail.”

“Hasn’t called you back then?”

“Nope.”

“If it was anybody else I’d have to say they were avoiding you, but this is Mycroft Holmes we’re talking about.”

“Look, would you...would you please ask Sherlock how I can get in touch with him? Even if I have to send a bloody semaphore to the Palace…” 

John laughed. “Don’t think that would work anyway. Far more likely to get you arrested.” 

“Yeah, well…Willing to try anything right now.”

“Greg, are you worried about him? You are, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice.” 

“Frankly, yes.”

“Why would you be worried about Mycroft Holmes?”

“It's been four days of radio silence, John. I’ll leave you to think about the reasons why I might be concerned, shall I? Use your imagination.”

There was a pause during which Greg could just about hear the cogs grinding in John’s brain. “Okay. Right…” There was a short pause. “Well... Greg, I’ll see if his lordship can shed any light upon the matter. Leave it with me. You working today?”

“No. Got the weekend off…”

“Right, I see. Okay then. I’ll get back to you.”

“Thanks, John. You’re a good mate.”

“Thank me later, after I’ve broached the subject of Big Brother with the world’s only consulting toddler…”

Greg laughed and hung up, sobering almost immediately at the thought of Sherlock deducing what was between his brother and the inspector. If it meant he found out what was going on with Mycroft Holmes though, he found he really didn’t care. He was more concerned about what was going through Mycroft’s head right now. He tried not to consider scenarios where Mycroft was ill or injured, in hospital, with nobody to visit… Greg caught himself running those scenarios through his head and cursed. He was really very worried at the lack of contact. Was Mycroft okay? How would he ever know if he wasn’t? He was well down the pecking order to find out, that was sure, but if Mycroft wasn’t okay, then surely Sherlock would know, wouldn’t he? As immediate family he would have been informed if anything bad had happened to his brother… Maybe no news was good news, in a way. Maybe it was simply Mycroft, having second thoughts... _but he seemed to like me..._ Greg sighed and went to make himself a coffee.

Mycroft stared at his phone in silence and cursed his wayward emotions. Caring was definitely not an advantage. He found he missed the inspector’s company, not to mention his...other assets, but this would not do. His mind was swamped with thoughts of the man, imaginings, fantasies, which he knew did not have to be mere fantasy, he only had to say the word… Why was that word so difficult? 

John rang back a couple of hours later. He sounded tired but somewhat triumphant. “How’d the reptilian study go?” Greg asked.

“Oh, that. Okay, I guess. Himself is finally satisfied it isn’t the German nanny anyway…" 

“German nanny?”

“Yup, or the Brazilian IT consultant. However, it might be the Norwegian Interpreter, he wasn’t very coherent for a while there.”

“If this was anyone else I’d say you were bullshitting me, but this is Sherlock we’re talking about so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and hold my peace. For now. What’s the verdict then? Any way I can contact Big Brother?”

“Sherlock expressed his desire that you would use the services of a medium but I pointed out that Mycroft isn’t actually dead yet so he was a bit less than pleased with that one. I think he would have been happy to murder Mycroft to facilitate a supernatural form of contact, but there you go. Anyway, he did suggest you turning up at the Diogenes…”

“His club?”

“Yes. Mycroft retreats there when he gets stressed, apparently. You could perhaps force the issue with your warrant card if they don't want to let you in.”

“Arrest Mycroft?”

“Well, maybe not that far but you should be able to get access with it, no?”

“Well… possibly. I didn’t really want to cause a fuss though…”

“My, you got it bad, hm?”

“What?”

“You. You’ve been bitten, mate. You’re hooked.”

“Well, I wanted to be, but it looks like someone doesn’t want to do the hooking.”

“He’s a stupid man, Greg. A very stupid man…”

Greg had speculated on the possible consequences of turning up at Mycroft’s club and flashing his warrant card, but wasn’t sure if it would be the worst thing he could do. He had no desire to alienate the man, and using his warrant card for no reason was a misuse of his rank and would irritate Mycroft at the very least. It didn’t sit well with him, even if he was getting frustrated at the lack of response. Greg decided he might as well get out of the house, so he threw on clothes and boots that were suitable for an off-duty walk in the sunshine, intending to end up at his local to drown his sorrows. As he was about to open the door, someone knocked loudly on it, startling him. He opened the door expecting someone selling something and opened his mouth to tell them to fuck off, but froze in place at the sight in front of him. Mycroft Holmes was standing there, looking at him warily. 

Greg shut his mouth with a snap and stepped back. If anyone had asked he would not have been able to say what was in his expression. Mycroft entered the flat in silence, and went straight into the living room, moving to stand near the window. He glanced at Greg as the inspector followed him. Greg paused in the doorway and watched as Mycroft hovered seemingly not quite sure what to do. The two men spent the next few minutes engaged in a silent conversation. 

Greg cocked his head on one side and raised his eyebrows. _Go on then, I’m waiting._

Mycroft shifted his weight and his brows drew together in a perplexed frown. _I’m not sure where to begin._

Greg folded his arms and his lips firmed into a line. _Well one of us better start somewhere._

Mycroft huffed softly, looked a the floor and gripped his umbrella until his knuckles whitened. _I detest this situation._

Greg sighed and glanced away, head shaking a little. _I don’t believe this._

Mycroft’s mouth pursed and his brows furrowed even deeper. He looked trapped. _I don’t do this, I do not know why I’m even here. I never do this._

“Go on then,” Greg said, breaking the silence suddenly. “I’m listening.” Mycroft seemed to startle slightly and turned away again, the frown still pulling his narrow brows together so hard it was threatening to become permanent. “I’ll presume you came to actually say something to me, Mycroft. I can’t believe you came to my flat just to admire the view.”

“This is… difficult…”

“Darn right it is,” Greg agreed. “What did I do, Mycroft?”

“Do?” Mycroft was momentarily thrown. “You haven’t _done_ anything.”

“Well, I figured I must have done something to chase you away. You’ve ignored my texts, your phone goes straight to voicemail and I had to ask your brother how to get in touch with you…”

“Yes, I know. He told me you had requested his...assistance.”

“Yeah, well...I figured you were pissed at me for something. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Why bother?”

Greg heard several layers of meaning behind that seemingly simple question. _Why bother requesting Sherlock’s assistance? Why bother investing time and energy you don’t have in this? Why bother with with me at all?_

“Now you’re bullshitting me, Mycroft. We were at the beginning of something. I was happy with it, that’s why I bothered. I like you, you daft berk, for all your high and mighty minor-position-in-the-British-Government crap. I find you very attractive, and most of the time I’m with you, I find myself mentally working out how to get you out of those suits you wear. As you damn well know, you git. plus...I was worried about you.”

“I...you were worried? About me? Why on earth...?”

"Because I care, you tit. You could have been in hospital...whatever, I wouldn't have been told anything if you were..."

"I would have instructed my assistant to tell you..."

“Yeah, well. I didn't know that, did I? So what scared you off?” 

“I’m not _scared_.” Mycroft tried to sound scandalised. 

“Then what, Mycroft? Why did you cut me dead?” 

“I...didn’t. I...Honestly, Gregory, I have no idea what on earth to do with this…”

“With what, Mycroft?”

“With us, Gregory. With whatever this is. I am not...not practiced at this. I have no idea how any of this works, or even if it will. We move in such different circles. I fear you will feel out of place in my life, among other, perhaps less desirable emotions, and vice versa. I...I do not wish you to...suffer any discomfort because we are incompatible.”

“Goldfish out of water, eh?” Mycroft stared at him. “It’s okay, Myc. I do know how you and Sherlock view the rest of mankind, myself and John included.” Mycroft had the decency to look pained. “Look, it’s not your fault that you’re a genius, but for all your brains, you can be very dense. Whatever this is between us, it needs time to grow. We have to risk it, to test the water...You can’t abandon it before it’s begun.”

“I should.”

“Pardon?”

“I said, I should. Abandon it, now, before we get in any deeper. My position is...difficult, at times dangerous. I would place you in an impossible position…”

“How so? Explain to me, Myc.”

“If certain factions knew you and I were…” Mycroft waved a hand in the air, “...together, it would put you in danger. If we become anything more than casual... _acquaintances_ , then you will find yourself in the firing line. You will at the very least find yourself facing increased security. You may find it almost impossible to continue your job.”

“Bullshit, Mycroft. I am not that important.”

“No, but I am, and please do not think I am blowing this up out of all proportion. As a way to get to me, you become very vulnerable. I am not sure I can do that to you, or even allow you to do that to me.”

“Well now at least you’re being honest with me.” Greg frowned. “You really are that important then? I mean...what do you do? National Security? Is that it?”

“Effectively. I am, however, little more than an assessor, a consultant, but what I know and what I do...Well, let’s just say I have a little more than a minor position in the Government. My work involves predicting outcomes, assessing the facts, working out the potential results of various actions. I am very useful to the highest in the country, and really I am telling you more than I should with even this scant bit of information.”

Greg gave a low whistle and pushed himself away from the door frame. “You want coffee?” he asked. “Tea?” He smiled. “You like Earl Grey, don’t you?”

“Earl Grey would be nice. I am truly sorry, Gregory. I am not lying to you, really. I just...I do want what we have between us. Nothing would please me more than for us to pursue a relationship but I cannot figure out how this would lead to anything other than complete disaster for us both.” 

“I can.”

“Pardon? Gregory, I fail to see how you can predict a better and more accurate outcome for us than I can when I am clearly the superior in such abilities. It is my job…”

“You deal in facts, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“And the main fact you have extrapolated is that if people knew about you and me, then I would be in danger?”

“Yes.”

“So...what if people don’t find out about us?”

“I fail to see how they would not.”

“Well, I’m not about to reveal it to anyone. Are you?”

“Anthea would need to know. So would Lady Smallwood…”

“Yes, and like they’re going to blab it to anyone.”

“They would never divulge anything.”

“So...what exactly are you afraid of then? I'm not the type to hold your hand in public, no more so are you. We're formal together at the best of times. So can you see anyone working it out. We meet for dinner, but I'd lay odds on bets that your own surveillance teams couldn't tell if we were a couple or not.”

“You are proposing we keep this secret?”

“Yes.”

“Seriously, Gregory…”

“Look, even if we don’t manage to keep it secret, what exactly would be impossible to accommodate?”

“You would dislike the measures we would have to put in place to keep you safe. Eventually you would come to resent it. You would leave me…”

“How do you know what I would do? I’m me, remember? Last time I looked I was still my own man, Mycroft. Have I ever given you to believe I would behave like that?”

“I would also hate to do that to you. I do not want you to be placed in that position.”

“I understand. It's nice that you care about me, but honestly, Mycroft, is it not partially my decision too? I mean, I should be given the opportunity to say yay or nay, hm?”

Mycroft sighed heavily. “You are indefatigable, Gregory. Are you really ready to accept bodyguards and drivers and secrecy? Going to work by a different route every day, changing your car every year, not placing yourself in a vulnerable position? It would mean never being left alone, not being able to leave the house without protection.”

“Well, apart from the last bit, do you not realize I do the rest already?”

"You do?"

"I'm a policeman, Myc. I never drive the same route to work every day, I am always aware of the threat level, the potential directions of attack, the value of not having a number plate certain factions might recognize. It comes with the job."

“I would expect you to never leave the house without wearing body armour.”

“Seriously? Well… I think you’re being a little OTT about that, but...if you insist on it, then...I guess we might have to negotiate certain things, but okay then, bring it on.”

“I do not believe you are completely aware of what this might entail.”

“You live like this all the time, so I’ll take my lead from you. If I want you, then I have to accept your terms, I understand that, but I’m not really that far behind you there. As I said, I do live with measures to keep myself from harm because I’ve made my fair share of enemies, you know. I have more security than most on my flat, and I take care which neighbourhoods I visit. Despite appearances, I do have a strong streak of self preservation.”

“I am not unaware of that, Gregory. After all, you associate with my brother too much not to. I…” Mycroft paused, took a deep breath and let it go slowly. “Are you absolutely sure, Gregory?”

“Yes, I am. I think we’d be daft not to see where this might take us, Mycroft. We like each other.” He chuckled. “For some reason, we both find each other insanely attractive. We have fun together, and above all, we wouldn’t be lonely. You and I are both lonely men, despite protestations to the contrary, and we understand each other too. We both have insane hours, we understand if one of us is working late or working on something the other can’t discuss. We understand the value of checking in, of making sure we’re both safe. We’re not teen girls who are insecure about their relationships, we’re not needy or jealous…”

“Speak for yourself, Gregory. I can display alarming levels of possessiveness and insane jealousy.”

Greg laughed. “In our world forewarned is forearmed, as they say, so I’ll count myself warned. However, in my humble opinion life is too short not to take an opportunity when it presents itself.” He risked reaching out and capturing Mycroft’s hand, twining the man’s fingers in his own. “So, what now?”

For a moment Mycroft was silent, gazing at their joined hands. “Well,” he said eventually, “presuming I haven’t completely stuffed this up, may I take you to dinner?” He looked up to see another grin widen Gregory’s mouth and light up his whole face, and felt the fingers tighten in his own. 

“When?”

“This evening?”

“You got anything planned between now and then?”

“Not as such…”

“Is that a no?”

“It could be.”

“Come on then…”

“Gregory, what on earth..?”

“Shh. You trust me, don’t you? Come on, Mycroft, now’s as good a time as any. You need to relax.”

“Do I?”

“Of course you do.” Greg’s smile turned suggestive. “Very tense stuff, this. Wouldn’t want your blood pressure to suffer, would we?”

“We wouldn’t?”

“Course not.” Greg walked backwards, dragging Mycroft gently along with him. “Besides, I know a good thing when I see one.” 

“I’m not everybody’s definition of a ‘good thing’,” Mycroft reminded him.

“Good. I hate sharing.” There was that grin again. The man was a rogue, plain and simple. _My rogue,_ Mycroft thought as Greg pulled him into the bedroom and kicked the door shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completely sure I like this chapter, not sure it isn't too rushed, but the story is nearing the end and I want to move on to other stuff. Hope you like.


	9. Making up is not that hard to do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter soon, folks. I'll maybe add one more. This story isn't going much further for me, and this kind of wraps it, although I may come back later. Just don't hold your breath, I have other Mystrades and some I need to do for Christmas. You can check Mottlemoth's Mystrade Advent calendar out if you want more to entertain you this year. Should be good. Find it on Tumblr and here on AO3.

“Do you have someone outside waiting for you?” Greg asked, switching on the side lamps by the bed.

“Yes. My driver, Jeremy, and my bodyguard, Alexei. Look…” Mycroft paused, fixing Greg with a look. “Why not come to mine? It’s more secure. We can properly relax there and I can send Alexei home, he’s been with me all day. My team at home will take over night duty and we can...well, kick back, as they say.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

“Okay then… let me grab some stuff. Er...how long can I stay?”

“How about… How about forever?”

“Eh?” Greg stared at Mycroft, dumbstruck. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

“I did, and I know it’s too much, but...I told you, I am terrible at this…”

Greg laughed. “You are not terrible, you’re just not...not practiced, Mycroft. Forever is a big word, and we both know it’s too soon, but it’s a nice sentiment, and not impossible. However, for starters I can stay all weekend. How would that be?”

“I am up early on Monday, I have to fly out for a few days.”

“How early?”

“Five AM.”

“I can manage that, if you can drop me at NSY on the way. Don’t mind getting there early. I can grab breakfast in the staff canteen. We can go to bed early on Sunday night, can’t we?”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Of course I’m bloody sure. Let me grab clothes and my overnight bag and I’m yours.”

“Mine? Really, Gregory?”

“Always, Mycroft.”

“Isn’t that too much, too soon as well?” 

Greg grinned again, stuffing underwear into his leather holdall. “Well, that makes two of us who are not practiced at this relationship thingy then,” he said gently. He flung a couple of shirts and some pairs of socks into his bag and disappeared into the bathroom where he quickly filled his wash bag. He emerged from there to see Mycroft staring through the window into the darkening sky. 

“Looks like rain,” Mycroft remarked. 

“Don’t care,” Greg countered. “Not when I’m with you.”

“You really mean that, don’t you? You really are sappily romantic.”

“When I get chance, yes. Does that bother you?”

“Not really. I am not sure I can return the favour, that’s all.”

“I’ll teach you, if you like.” 

“I’m sure you will make a very good teacher, Greg.” Mycroft found himself backed against the door.

“I can teach a lot of things, Mycroft,” came the husky voiced reply. “Give me the chance and I’ll show you.”

“Oh…” Mycroft breathed, finding himself pinned by the greater bulk of Greg’s body against his. The man was strong, insistent, and very warm against him.

“Gregory, please. If you continue we shall not be leaving any time soon…”

“Good.”

“Not good, no. We need to go to my flat...now… or….ungh…” he made an inarticulate noise and took a deep breath as Greg kissed his neck beneath his ear.

“Okay, okay, bossy man. Let’s go. I’ve got what I need.” Greg fastened his lips on Mycroft’s neck once more for good measure and then pulled away, grabbing the man’s hand and levering him away from the wall. “Let me grab my massage table, and then our chariot awaits…”

Mycroft’s flat was definitely the better choice, Greg thought, glancing around him appreciatively. His bed was huge, larger than king size.

“Bespoke,” Mycroft said. “I have a mattress made for it every few years.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. My comfort is of paramount importance to me. I need my sleep and decent rest, so why not afford comfort where I can?” 

“Why not indeed?” 

“So, shall we go to dinner somewhere, or get take out?”

“Take out. I fancy just staying here with you, chilling out with a properly made pasanda and a peshwari naan. How about it?”

“Very well. I shall partake of a Korma, I think. I prefer a little less heat,”

“Mycroft, pasanda is not hot.”

“I know but I like Korma and I do know a very good local restaurant. I shall send someone to collect it for us.” 

Greg watched as Mycroft ordered their food, listening as he spoke fluently in a language Greg hadn’t heard very often, and had no clue concerning what it was.

“It’s Urdu,” Mycroft replied to Greg’s unasked question. 

“How d’you know what I was thinking?” 

“Your expression told me. You were curious, ergo I was speaking a language you haven’t heard before.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Holmesy. I have heard it, I just had no clue what it was. You don’t live in this city for long before you’ve heard plenty of foreign languages, even if you can’t identify many of them. So, then, exactly how many languages do you speak?”

“My last count was...fifteen, I think; Urdu, Hindi, Pashto, German, Spanish, Italian, Norwegian, Danish, French, Mandarin, Japanese, Russian, and a smattering of Dutch, Serbian and Polish…However, although I can speak most of them conversationally, I am fluent in less than half of them and I cannot write well in more than four; Russian, French, Italian and German.”

“You’ve an ear for languages then.”

“Somewhat.” Mycroft smiled. “I’ve impressed you.”

“I admit I am a bit in awe of your talents.”

“As I am in awe of yours, you know.” “I don’t have many…”

“Au contraire, Gregory. You have talents I cannot hope to acquire. As you well know, you rogue.” Greg chuckled and reached for him.

“You’re wearing too many clothes again, love. Need to get you naked again.” Greg walked him backward to the bed and gently pushed him to sit. He reached for Mycroft’s shoes, unlacing the smart Oxfords and placing them under the bed. Keeping his touch firm but gentle Greg slipped the silk socks off those long feet, and took his chance to massage toes. Mycroft could not suppress the soft groan. This time, Greg shed his clothes quickly, desperate for the contact of skin on skin. Mycroft found himself explored, tenderly and intimately. Greg let his hands roam, massaging as they went, while he nuzzled into Mycroft’s neck, tongue flicking out to taste. Greg suckled an earlobe between his teeth and nibbled, hearing a gratifying intake of breath that degenerated into a soft moan. Mycroft’s eyes opened and he met Greg’s gaze with his own heated stare. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Greg murmured, stroking his fingers up across Mycroft’s chest. He let his fingers trail through chest hair, grazing across Mycroft’s nipples, which caused the man to gasp and shudder, and arch into his touch. Mycroft in turn dragged his fingers through Greg’s hair, the urge to grip and tug becoming stronger with Greg’s every move. Mycroft flexed his fingers and Greg groaned as he felt the pull. “Getting bold there, love. You want more?” 

“Hmm, as much as you can give me, Gregory, you are breathtaking…” For answer, Greg fastened his mouth over Mycroft’s and kissed him, deeply, hungrily, leaving him in no doubt as to the outcome of this particular encounter. Mycroft could already feel the man’s arousal against his thigh, cock hard and straining. They broke the kiss, panting, and Greg growled, a long and low rumble against his neck.

“Myc...I want… can I...could I fuck you? Would you trust me enough?”

The blue eyes had gone almost black, the pupils were so dilated. Mycroft licked his lips and let out a shuddery breath. 

“Please,” he murmured, almost inaudibly. “Supplies, in the bedside cabinet…”

Greg leaned over and wrenched the drawer open, finding condoms and lubricant and struggling to bring his wayward body under control. He wanted Mycroft, but he had no desire to hurt him. He needed to take this slowly, carefully, and gently. 

Greg’s thick fingers moving inside him were almost enough to finish it for Mycroft. He arched, already feeling impossibly stretched. Greg was being exquisitely careful, massaging firmly but gently, and when his finger slipped inside, it was easy. When another joined the first, Mycroft almost saw stars. It was a little too much at first, but at Mycroft’s bitten-back grunt, Greg stilled, waiting, allowing Mycroft to relax around him. Then his fingers curled and Mycroft nearly cried out. Greg was touching him….there, inside, massaging, milking him. Mycroft threw himself back onto the pillows, his weeping cock straining for some friction across his belly. “Oo, that is a lovely sight,” Greg complemented. “Look at you. Christ, Mycroft, your legs go on forever.” 

The fingers disappeared, and Greg’s hands gripped Mycroft’s buttocks and tugged the pads of muscle apart. Greg loomed over him, and then Mycroft felt the blunt coolness of the man’s prick pressing inside, the slick length easing past resisting muscles. Again, Greg stilled, allowing for Mycroft to adjust to his girth. Then he began to move, a slow slide inside, then the drag as he pulled back, and the slow slide again, building a rhythm. It was too good. It took neither man long before they were gasping and panting in unison, pleasure uncoiling inside both of them, and Greg took Mycroft in hand, stroking him off. At Mycroft’s muttered pleas and swearing, the long lovely length of him pinned under Greg’s body and writhing, Greg felt his orgasm start to ripple through his body. Suddenly he was coming hard, harder than he had for months, moaning Mycroft’s name. By the time he regained some of his senses, he felt the warm wetness in his hand from Mycroft’s own release. The man was looking at him blissfully. 

“Okay?” 

“Gregory… you need ask?”

Greg huffed a laugh. “I guess not, just checking though.” 

“We should shower. I am too old to wake up stuck to the sheets.”

“Together, or would you like some space?”

“Together would be blissful.”

“Okay then, together it is, and then we’d better let your team know they can heat up our food.”

The food, when it arrived, was very good. They sat in the living room, dressed in pajamas and dressing gowns, curled up on the sofa, watching television and scoffing their take away with relish. Greg was too busy watching Mycroft eat to think about much else. He was neat in everything he did, and right now he was enjoying the food if his expression was anything to go by. Mycroft caught Greg watching and frowned.

“What now?”

“Nothing. Just love watching you enjoy your food.”

Mycroft felt a blush creeping up his neck. Being this much on show was new, and slightly embarrassing. 

“You are also adorable when you blush, you know that?”

“Adorable? Great Heavens, Gregory. I am about as far from adorable as it is possible to be.”

“Not when you blush, Mycroft.” Greg forked another mouthful of take away into his mouth and chewed, thoughtfully. Then he remembered. “Christ!”

“What? What is amiss, Gregory? Are you alright?”

“Just remembered, I have to be at the match tomorrow night. With Lincoln. I cannot let the lads down…”

“Fret not, Gregory. We shall go together. It cannot be that much of a problem.”

“Oh, okay then. As long as you won’t be bored.”

“We can remedy that when we return after the match…” 

Greg chuckled. “That we can, love. That we can.”


End file.
